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THE SAVAGE 








v V 

MIKHAIL ARTZYBASHEFF 


## 

THE SAVAGE 


TRANSLATED FROM 
THE RUSSIAN BY 

GILBERT CANNAN 

AND 

Mme. A. STRINDBERG 



Mr 


BONI and LIVERIGHT 

Publishers :: :: New York 


Ccr h 





Copyright, 1924, by 
Boni & Liveright, Inc. 

Printed in the United States of America 



MAY 15 ’24 


©Cl A792428 ... 



4t0 "V* 



THE SAVAGE 





THE SAVAGE 


CHAPTER I 

Merchant Dikoy’s house and yard were 
situated on a big desolate square where the 
horse-fair was held once a year, hence its en¬ 
tire surface was permanently covered with hay- 
grind and soft decomposed manure. The 
name of the square was Sennoy, which means 
Haymarket. Through the middle of it ran a 
half-crumbled earthen-mound and a long ditch 
with rusty-coloured fetid water that never 
dried up. It was said that these were the re¬ 
mains of an old Cossack fortress and that a 
number of human bones had been dug up dur¬ 
ing the excavations. Stray half savage dogs 
used to roam on the mound, and quite possibly 
the yellow bones over which they wrangled 
were actually human ones. 

Scattered randomly around the square were 
low little houses with grey wooden fences and 
[ 7 ] 


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neglected dusty orchards with sickly trees that 
bore only small sour apples. On one side the 
square sloped down to a miry little river, tor¬ 
tuously winding and covered with thick-grow¬ 
ing sedge. A long wooden bridge, warped 
and rickety, stumbled over the river and by it 
stood an ancient smithy with an earthen roof 
on which green grass grew. At night the wind 
blew up dampness and pitcoal-smoke from the 
river, a red fire shone mysteriously in the black¬ 
smith’s open doorway, and the dull beat of his 
hammer echoed far into space. On the other 
side the square adjoined the Public-Gardens, 
the only green and shady nook in the town, 
situated on a monotonous and sandy plain. On 
holidays the military band played in the Gar¬ 
dens. 

Directly opposite the homestead of the 
Dikoys stretched a long straight street, which 
reached way out into the open fields and was 
called Kladbischenskaya—Churchyardroad. 

Often funeral processions passed by, at 
which times the tremulous playing of the 
[ 8 ] 




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cracked churchyard-bells would be heard far in 
the distance. 

The house and yard of the Dikoys faced 
right onto the lonely square and fitted it well. 
Just as big and desolate they were surrounded 
by high fences and substantial barns. Heaped 
up against the fences were logs and empty bar¬ 
rels, and dry steppe grass and hard stinging 
nettles grew rankly everywhere. The single¬ 
storied, red brick-house, raised on a high 
foundation, looked out upon the square with a 
row of dark, ever closed windows. 

Toward the yard was added to the house a 
clumsy glass verandah, which was very cold in 
winter and as hot as an oven in summer. In 
front of the verandah was the same bare, bar¬ 
ren garden as everywhere else, in which grew 
but a single large tree—a grey, dust-covered 
willow. 

One glance at the homestead, and you knew 
that here lived torpid gloomy people, who 
zealously saved every penny they made, de¬ 
voured vast quantities of fat food, snored in 
their sleep, never laughed and in drink or anger 
[ 9 ] 








THE SAVAGE 


were as savage and terrible as primordial bar¬ 
barians. It was not merely accidental that 
their name was Dikoy, which means savage . 

Old man Dikoy had died long ago, leaving 
three sons: the eldest, Klim Ivanovich, just as 
harsh and sluggish and acute in business as his 
father had been,—the second, Zakhar, a tall 
blond, happy-go-lucky child of nature,—and 
the youngest, Petenka, an idiot from birth, 
a puffy dwarf with a low forehead, little cun¬ 
ning eyes and thick pendulous lips. 

Although Klim Ivanovich had taken over 
the business already while his father was still 
alive and had control of everything, the ac¬ 
knowledged head of the family was still the 
widow, Anna Petrovna, a woman of strict 
orthodox faith, who always wore a little black 
head cloth and most jealously watched over the 
family possessions. The whole town knew, 
feared and respected her, and she was called 
Mother not only by her sons but by the work¬ 
people and the neighbours. 

Klim Ivanovich was married and put into 
severe practice what was his interpretation 
of his conjugal rights and duties. He had no 
[ 10 ] 




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children. Zakhar, unlike the rest of the fam¬ 
ily, cared little for money, and took no inter¬ 
est in business matters. He was a bachelor 
and pursued a series of adventures with the 
lively daughters of the lower middle class. 
The idiot, Petenka, who distinguished himself 
by his ape-like lewdness, spent his time chas¬ 
ing the wenches who worked in the fields or in 
the oil mill of the family. No sooner did a 
goodlooking newcomer arrive on the fields than 
Petenka would appear, bleating and panting 
and trying to slip a cake or sweet into her 
hand or her bodice. And a few days later, 
timidly glancing round to see that no one was 
looking, she would slide into the tall grass 
where Petenka would be waiting for her. A 
little while later, sated and elate, he would 
walk across the courtyard, while the embar¬ 
rassed girl, upset, alarmed, would creep swiftly 
round behind the barn and so back to the fields 
and her companions, with a little gold cross 
on a blue or red ribbon shining on her sun 
tanned breast. These girls were called Pe- 
tenka’s “god-children.” 

[n] 




THE SAVAGE 


Klim Ivanovich abhorred this misconduct 
and whenever he found it out, he would drive 
the girl out with his stick, and threaten 
Petenka with the swift and complete destruc¬ 
tion of all such desires in him. 

On one occasion one of these girls became 
pregnant, and her mother, a market woman, 
called at the house and lodged a complaint. 
Klim Ivanovich gave her ten roubles, but that 
very same night he hunted the idiot out and 
beat him until he collapsed half dead. While 
they were throwing cold water over Petenka 
to bring him to, Klim Ivanovich stood on the 
threshold, nervously clenching and unclench¬ 
ing his fists and scornfully muttering: 

“Never mind. . . . He won’t croak.” 

The idiot had been afraid of his eldest 
brother from childhood, but after this occur¬ 
rence he loathed him with a deep animal hatred. 
Of course he could not touch him, but when¬ 
ever Klim Ivanovich happened to walk about 
the courtyard attending to his business the 
idiot, from his hiding place in the tall grass, 
would follow his brother’s movements like a 
[ 12 ] 




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wild beast fiercely and evilly glaring at its 
tamer. 

But Petenka loved, nay, adored, his brother 
Zakhar who never hurt him, often gave him 
money for sweets and took him out hunting. 
The idiot would go wild with delight at a gun 
shot and when a wounded bird helplessly beat 
its wings in the reeds, Petenka would catch it 
with feline dexterity, bite through its neck 
with his huge yellow teeth, and snarl and growl 
like a wild cat.. It was a horrible, repulsive 
sight. 

Klim Ivanovich conducted all the family 
business and kept the books. Zakhar would 
often live for long stretches of time on the farm 
on the steppe, supervising the labourers, and 
he also ran the oil mill which had been built 
at his suggestion and after his design. Anna 
Petrovna looked after the house. Petenka 
loafed about, dallied with the wenches and 
overfed. The Mother and her eldest-born re¬ 
garded him as a divine punishment inflicted by 
God upon the family because of the old man’s 
pride, who had always and everywhere set him¬ 
self up as first and foremost. 

[ 13 ] 




CHAPTER II 


Klim Ivanovich was much older than Zak¬ 
har and Petenka. He was forty-five when he 
married. Until then he used to say that he had 
no time for such nonsense, but, on one of his 
business trips to a neighbouring town, he met 
Glafira, the daughter of an almost bankrupt 
merchant; and was suddenly enwrapped in a 
deep melancholy love for her, which gripped 
him so strongly that he was plunged in gloom 
and his expression became more sombre than 
ever. 

Glafira was not tall, but she was slim and 
supple and handsome, with soft shapely 
shoulders, small strong hands, thick black eye¬ 
brows, and such fresh, sweet lips that when 
she laughed and showed her white regular teeth 
she roused happiness in a man and a longing 
for a kiss just as the sight of clean cool water 
on a hot summer day rouses thirst. 

[ 14 ] 


THE SAVAGE 


Klim Ivanovich’s love for his wife was 
purely physical and it showed itself in an in¬ 
satiable desire for her. Glafira was a really 
beautiful woman, while Klim Ivanovich, in 
spite of his iron constitution and bull-like force, 
had, with the exception of a few indiscretions, 
been almost chaste up to the time of his mar¬ 
riage. 

The Presbyter of the Cathedral Church in 
whose parish the Dikoys’ house was situated, 
explained this belated betrothal thus: 

“Only his superhuman abstinence can ac¬ 
count for it.” 

Of course a clumsy lout like Klim Ivano¬ 
vich, who always wore a baggy coat, shiny with 
grease, and with ragged bulging pockets, 
could not appeal to a lively coquette like 
Glafira who had been courted by government 
officials and even by officers. But the bride¬ 
groom was a good match and his proposal was 
gladly accepted. Glafira tried to protest, but 
her father gave her a sound thrashing and in 
the end she resigned herself to her fate. 

The wedding was celebrated in the small 
[ 15 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


town in which her parents lived. Anna 
Petrovna attended at the ceremony in a gown 
of dark brown velvet with black fringes. Zak¬ 
har was ill at the time with a cold caught on a 
shooting trip, while Petenka was not taken 
to the wedding to avoid disgracing the family 
in front of strangers. 

But the idiot was dying to be present at the 
solemn function, as he had got it into his head 
that big guns were to be fired. When he was 
told that he must stay at home, he yelled and 
raved and flung himself on the floor, and 
from that time on hated his brother Klim more 
than ever, holding him responsible for the in¬ 
sult that had been put upon him. 

The wedding was magnificent, with full 
candelabra, a choir, an orchestra and Russian 
champagne. Glafira wore a white satin bridal 
gown with a long train and a white veil, while 
Klim Ivanovich wore a new black frock-coat 
with a white tie. 

The old merchant’s house was lit up from 
top to bottom and the band played full blast 
without stopping. Dancing couples cast their 
[ 16 ] 






THE SAVAGE 


gliding shadows on the windows and in the 
street below a large crowd of loafers gathered 
to pass remarks on the bride and bridegroom 
and their relatives and the wedding guests. 

Glafira danced until she dropped. She was 
unnaturally excited, laughing and flirting, and 
it was only every now and then that she threw 
a frightened glance at her husband. She could 
not admit the idea to herself that this gloomy 
unpleasant stranger was to be her mate, and 
she forced herself not to think of it. But the 
nearer the moment approached for the newly 
wed couple to be escorted to their bridal cham¬ 
ber, the greater grew the terror and physical 
anguish that had gripped her so that her hands 
were cold and her knees gave way beneath her. 

The bridal night left Glafira with memories 
of a ghastly nightmare of pain, shame and 
disgust. However, when the happy couple 
drove through the town paying calls in accord¬ 
ance with the immemorial custom, she seemed 
to be quietly happy as she smiled and bowed, 
no longer with her girlish vivacity, but with a 
[ 17 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


grave dignity becoming to her position as a 
rich married woman, the wife of a substantial 
merchant. 

The festivities lasted three days and then 
the happy couple drove home. The old mer¬ 
chant, her father, though he had never re¬ 
garded his daughter as anything but a “fine 
mare at stud,” shed a tear or two as he said 
good-bye, while Glafira’s mother, a little 
frightened old woman who lived in a state of 
chronic scare, bade her farewell as though her 
daughter were being driven to the cemetery. 
And perhaps the old lady was not altogether 
wrong. One glance at Klim’s hard, heavy 
features or his mother’s sharp, stony counte¬ 
nance was enough to give assurance that the 
young bride’s existence would be tedious and 
dreary. 

Glafira drove with her husband and mother- 
in-law into the town where the Dikoys lived 
and along Kladbischenskaya just as someone 
was being buried and the bells were ringing 
as though they were muffled with unshed tears. 

According to local superstition, however, it 
[ 18 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


was a good omen to meet a corpse, so the 
funeral procession did not disturb Glafira. 
She was much more depressed by the sight of 
the market square and the dreary little town, 
dirty and bare, with never a patch of green, 
while its grey dust was saturated with the 
smell of fish, tar, leather, oil and petroleum. 

But when she saw Petenka and heard his 
queer bleating, Glafira was so frightened that 
something in her bosom seemed to crack. 

Zakhar, who had come out to meet them, 
must have guessed the kind of impression the 
town and the house would make on his sister- 
in-law, for he was effusively friendly to her, 
and as soon as he had greeted her he said in a 
tone of kind, warm encouragement: 

“Don’t be unhappy, little Sister, even here 
we have our joys.” 


[19] 




CHAPTER III 


But, indeed, there was no joy in their lives. 

“We don’t get on worse than other folk,” 
Anna Petrovna used to observe with pride, and 
she was perfectly right, for everybody else in 
the little town stagnated in just the same way. 

The town was the centre of the district, a 
hundred and fifty versts from the capital of 
the province and about thirty from the rail¬ 
way. Its inhabitants were government offi¬ 
cials, merchants and small shopkeepers, and a 
regiment of dragoons was quartered there. 
There was a school for boys and a high school 
for girls, a district school, courthouses, a 
branch of the Volga-Komsk bank, a steam- 
mill belonging to the Vinogradoffs, a prison, 
and ten stone churches, including the famous 
Cathedral, which contains an Ikon of the 
miraculous Mother of God. 

In the centre of the town in the market- 
[ 20 ] 


THE SAVAGE 


place were the so-called Rows, long, low build¬ 
ings with green iron roofs, divided into dark 
cellarous rooms, offices for manufactured 
goods, leather, petroleum, nails, scythes, pow¬ 
der, grain, buttons, trimmings and fancy ware. 
In the middle of the square stood a strange 
structure, consisting only of a roof supported 
by wooden posts. This had an ambiguous 
name which well-bred young women were care¬ 
ful not to pronounce too often—Shopa: * and 
beneath this roof were the booths of the small 
traders. 

Further there was a club with quite a toler¬ 
able library, a boulevard which the young 
women students and officers used as a 
promenade and in the Public Gardens there 
were a rotunda and a summer buffet. The 
Club organised dances and amateur theatri¬ 
cals, but these were patronised only by the 
young people. Their elders preferred cards 
and vodka, while the books in the library were 
borrowed only by the young women and the 
Jewish adolescents. 

* Shopa is a Polish word, the meaning of which is the same 
as the Grecian “pygos.” 

[ 21 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


In the town people were born and married 
and they died: merchants bought and sold, 
government officials scribbled at their desks, 
the humble folk traded in cattle and busied 
themselves with a thousand small occupations. 
Everybody seemed to live their own particular 
life, but in fact they all lived as the accumu¬ 
lated product of the villages, hamlets and 
farms which lay scattered round the town in 
the endless expanse of the steppe, along the 
hillsides, and between the marshes and the 
forests which constituted the vast district and 
its eleven sub-districts. 

These hamlets and villages were inhabited 
by a strange semi-barbarous people who be¬ 
lieved implicitly in signs and portents. Their 
faces were covered with hair, and in summer 
and winter alike they wore thick warm caps, 
and they were dirty and dark like the earth, 
their mother. They were called Peasants. 

Somewhere in the large cities were men and 
women who talked and wrote of these Peas¬ 
ants, contriving many and various methods of 
working their salvation. They called them 
[ 22 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


“God-bearers” and believed them to contain 
secreted some great and holy truths. These 
enthusiasts called upon the world to learn truth 
and wisdom from the Peasants. Great politi¬ 
cal parties gathered round the word Peasant, 
and the marvellous word produced events of 
great importance, while cultured young men 
and women in love with sacrifice embarked 
upon murder, risking prison and the rope for 
the sake of the blessed word. 

Meanwhile the Peasants went on starving, 
dying of all kinds of diseases, propagating 
their species with incredible rapidity, plough¬ 
ing the clay and the sand, clearing forests, 
draining marshes, baking in the sun, freezing 
in the snow and—paying taxes. 

When a Peasant came to town he was timid, 
bashful and suspicious as a savage. He bowed 
humbly to every man who wore a uniform or 
carried a watch, and would stand for hours 
with bared head in frost or heat in front of 
the magistrate’s offices. But on Fair-days 
the Peasants poured into the town in droves, 
with horse and waggon, wives and children and 
[ 23 ] 






THE SAVAGE 


dogs, and the streets resounded with the creak¬ 
ing of wheels, the neighing of horses, the 
squealing of babies, drunken brawls, coarse 
oaths and lecherous songs. They would out- 
span in the market square, tilt their waggons, 
and drape ragged tents round them—and it 
would seem as though the town had been in¬ 
vaded by a Tartar horde of the days of Genghis 
Khan. 

All the inhabitants of the town existed 
through and for the Peasants. It was for 
them that the Rows had been built, for them 
that the official buildings had been established, 
for them that the churches were designed and 
the four-storied prison. 

The traders robbed them, the priests fright¬ 
ened them with fearful tales of hell, the offi¬ 
cers and soldiers suppressed their blind crazy 
rebellions that broke out now and then through 
their hunger, or their ignorance, or their faith 
in strange legends of a Golden Rule that prom¬ 
ised them land and freedom. 

The young people of the town stopped read¬ 
ing books as soon as they grew up and drifted 

[ 24 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


into the places of the greedy tradespeople and 
the venial government servants. The young 
women married officials enriched from the 
State treasury, while as soon as the young men 
completed their education they donned caps 
and badges, and in their turn became govern¬ 
ment officials. This had been the history of 
the town from generation to generation and 
it seemed as though it would go on for ever and 
ever. 

The whole town lived on graft and swin¬ 
dling, and when it chanced that a living soul 
with a sensitive conscience and a feeling heart 
came into the midst of it all, it would slowly 
be degraded, dulled, besmirched, under the in¬ 
fluence of the prevailing greed, sloth and bore¬ 
dom. Money, food, sleep, cards, gossip, 
hypocrisy and drunkenness were the common¬ 
places of the life of the town, with brawling 
and murder as variations. It would have 
struck the townspeople as queer even to think 
that it might be different. 

And this was the life the Dikoys lived. 

In their wide courtyard somebody was 
[ 25 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


always being swindled, given short measure or 
change. The Peasant who dealt there would 
come out bewildered, sweating and haggard, 
asking with a foolish perplexed expression: 
“How can that be?” Then he would mutter 
to himself and stare idiotically at the ground 
and at last in utter perplexity go crashing off 
into the nearest inn. In the house, however, 
profits were amassed and like respectable peo¬ 
ple the Dikoys ate and slept in their beds and 
begat worthy offspring. 

From an early hour in the morning Klim 
Ivanovich hustled about the house and court¬ 
yard all day long, cursing and calling on the 
name of God as he bargained with his cus¬ 
tomers. Anna Petrovna shrilled and screamed 
at the servants ceaselessly, and Zakhar worked 
at the oil-mill. At tea or supper, when they 
gathered round the table they talked only of 
profit and loss and accused each other of idle¬ 
ness or dissipation. Their distractions con¬ 
sisted of a complete sullen idleness on holidays, 
standing through interminable church serv¬ 
ices until they were stupefied; aimless gossip, 
[ 26 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


satisfying their animal desires, and unre¬ 
strained drunkenness for birthdays, weddings, 
and funerals. 

Glafira soon grew accustomed to this ex¬ 
istence. An outsider might even have thought 
her perfectly happy. At least her lovely face 
wore a mask of impenetrable tranquillity as in 
rich attire she walked to church with her hus¬ 
band on a feast day, or presided in the par¬ 
lour, waiting on her guests with candy-cakes, 
nuts and home-made sweets, all with a gentle 
dignity. 

In the two years of her marriage her figure 
had matured and she had acquired a peculiarly 
charming gravity of manner and a sweet 
melodious way of speaking. Indeed she 
gained in beauty every day, but strangely her 
smile no longer roused a thirst for the kiss of 
her lips. 

Glafira was as much afraid of her husband 
as before but she had grown used to him and 
to his heavy wearisome caresses, which she ac¬ 
cepted now without repulsion, idly, indiffer¬ 
ently, like a well-fed cow. 

[ 27 ] 





THE SAVAGE 


Klim Ivanovich paid hardly any attention 
to her and only at night vented his savage in¬ 
satiable lust upon her. Anna Petrovna did not 
like her and wore her down with scolding, 
especially after her old father, now completely 
ruined, began to come to his son-in-law for 
money. The old man was dirty and unkempt, 
obviously drunk, and he had made his ap¬ 
proaches timidly and cravenly. He was given 
nothing, but Glafira was forced to endure her 
mother-in-law’s reproaches while her husband 
taunted her with continual reminders that he 
had rescued her from a poverty-stricken 
house: 

“You had nothing like this in your dear lit¬ 
tle father’s house. . . . When you lived with 
your dear Papa you had to wear working 
clothes. . . . And see what a lady you have 
become!” 

Zakhar treated Glafira kindly. He pitied 
her openly and often defended her against 
Mother’s attacks. Petenka, the idiot, adored 
her like a dog because she was kind to him and 
beautiful. 


[ 28 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


But Zakhar was rarely at home, spending 
most of his time at the farm or hunting or 
with women. And Petenka could only give his 
inarticulate bleat, so that by the end of the 
second year of her marriage Glafira had begun 
to languish. At first her dejection had no 
definite cause and it was expressed only in an 
aimless irritability, which, however, needed but 
an untoward event to turn it into another 
emotion. 

This happened when Zakhar had an acci¬ 
dent at the mill when a broken cog from a wheel 
struck him on the forehead. The wound was 
slight, but for some reason it turned septic and 
had to be washed and bandaged every day, and 
Glafira undertook to see to it. 

Zakhar would sit down on a chair, and she 
would stand by him, with a wad of cotton in 
a bowl of water, and carefully bathe the wound, 
detaching the lint from the flesh thread by 
thread It was a painful proceeding, but Zak¬ 
har would sit patiently pretending that it did 
not hurt at all. He would laugh and jest, try¬ 
ing to be pleasant, and he would say: 

[ 29 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


“What a light hand you have, little Sister. 
You ought to become a doctor.” 

Glafira would blush with pleasure, and hold¬ 
ing her breath, she would try to be even more 
gentle. 

Once by accident she pressed Zakhar’s head 
against the soft, warm cushion of her breast. 

It was a mere flash of contact and Glafira 
instinctively moved away at once, but some¬ 
how both were stirred and embarrassed. All 
that evening Glafira was silent and absent- 
minded, and Zakhar kept on stealing glances 
at her as though he were seeing her for the 
first time as she should be seen. They hardly 
analysed their feelings, and yet each knew that 
this chance contact had first made him feel the 
woman in her and her in him the plan. 

From that evening on Zakhar began to 
watch Glafira with a male intentness, her lovely 
shoulders, her firm breasts, and supple limbs 
and fresh lips, while she was filled with a 
thrilling tenderness for her brother-in-law. 
The daily changing of the bandage brought 
them ever closer, and both waited for the same 
[ 30 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


thing. Zakhar yearned for Glafira to touch 
him, while she could hardly restrain herself 
from pressing his head to her breast, until at 
last it came about almost against their will. 
Then they both sank into a strange, sweet for¬ 
getfulness, Zakhar never stirring, Glafira 
burning red with eyes half-closed as though 
she were just waking from sleep, as she moved 
the lint across his wound. The water trickled 
through Zakhar’s hair down into his collar, 
but they did not notice it, and it was only after 
a long time that they could turn away from 
each other. 

After a week the wound was healed. The 
bandaging had ended, and their relationship 
sank back into its old routine. But only out¬ 
wardly. 

Zakhar had always liked the beautiful Gla¬ 
fira, but it had never entered his mind to look 
upon her as a woman. Glafira was his own 
brother’s wife, and Zakhar would have thought 
it a deadly sin to feel amorously towards her. 
He tried to forget the strange excitement he 
had felt when she bandaged his wound, and 
[ 31 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


he seemed to have succeeded, for he went back 
to his pursuit of the gay daughters of the shop¬ 
keepers, and as before he went hunting and 
stayed on the farm, and spent most of his time 
at the oil-mill which he had built not far from 
home on one of the many empty plots on 
Kladbischenskaya. 

But Glafira, it seemed, had experienced 
something deeper, for, after this, she had a 
craving for Zakhar’s company, felt lonely 
when he stayed away from home for any 
length of time, and under some sort of pre¬ 
text she went to the mill every day. 

Here Zakhar was supreme. He worked like 
a beast of burden, starting up the great wooden 
wheel that was turned by a horse, helping the 
workmen with a handle of the hydraulic press, 
jesting and laughing all the time. His shirt 
was open at the neck, his sleeves were rolled 
up above the elbow, and Glafira, unnoticed, 
would watch the play of his strong muscles 
under his sunburned skin, while her eyes would 
grow darker and her cheeks would glow. 

[ 32 ] 





THE SAVAGE 


“Well, little Sister? Come to help us?” 
Zakhar would ask playfully. 

Glafira would blush, laugh and go away. 
Eut at night when her husband became too in¬ 
sistent she would repulse him irritably. 

“Leave me alone. . . . I’m sick of you. . . . 
I want to sleep. . . .” 

Something strange had happened within 
her, but she did not admit it to herself—not 
until jealousy set in. 

One day she saw Zakhar playfully put his 
arm round one of the girls who worked in the 
mill. The girl was pretty, robust and impu¬ 
dent. She gave Zakhar a blow on the chest 
and pushed him away and her white teeth 
flashed provokingly and temptingly. 

“Just see how nice she is . . .” said Zakhar, 
half closing his eyelids. 

The girl laughed, but Glafira was silent and 
went away and she never answered Zakhar’s 
playful questions all day. 

From that moment on she knew that she 
loved Zakhar, and she was madly jealous of all 
women. When Zakhar visited a house where 
[ 33 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


there were young girls, Glafira had not a mo¬ 
ment’s peace: and at the thought of his marry- 
s ing her head spun in a whirl. She wanted to 
prove to Zakhar that she was more beautiful 
and interesting than any of the girls he met. 
She tried to show herself before him half 
dressed,—she had a burning desire for him 
to see her nude, and as she knew this in herself 
her whole face would flame and her heart con¬ 
tract with shame, while her body would lan¬ 
guish in a riot of desire, with her knees trem¬ 
bling in the frailness of bliss. 

Not for anything in the world would she 
have betrayed her emotions to anyone, for she 
thought them sinful. When her longing for 
Zakhar grew to an anguish she would try to 
forget it in her husband’s arms—but after¬ 
wards she knew nothing but weariness, mortifi¬ 
cation and physical repulsion for Klim Ivano¬ 
vich. 


[ 34 ] 




CHAPTER IV 


Once during the night a big fire broke out 
three houses away from the Dikoys’ yard. 
Solodovnikoff’s hemp-barns were alight. The 
dense black sky was draped with a red flicker¬ 
ing veil and the neighbouring bell-tower was 
flooded from top to bottom with saffron light. 
High above the fire pink doves hovered in the 
sky and floundered helplessly in the purple 
smoke which oozed up in dense clouds. The 
alarm bells rang out from all the churches 
sharp and clear in their insistence. From the 
Dikoys’ yard the noise of the fire engine could 
be clearly heard rattling and clanking, together 
with the hiss of a bursting hose, the barking of 
dogs, and the eager shouts of excited voices. 
Every now and then the roof timbers broke 
with a deafening crash and then a fiery column 
shot up scattering millions of sparks in every 
direction, terrific in their brilliance against the 
[ 35 ] 




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dark sky. It was like daylight in the yard and 
in the orchard the twisting burning flocks of 
hemp came slowly fluttering down. All the 
workmen and Klim Ivanovich stood with pails 
of water on the roofs of the barns, extinguish¬ 
ing the firebrands as they fell, while Mother 
stood tall and still on the steps. She was all 
in black with a glimmering pink reflection on 
her pale face, and she held a black Ikon in her 
withered bony hands. 

Over the whole scene there was that sinister 
yet exuberant spirit which takes possession of 
a crowd watching a fire at night, as though 
some magic spell were abroad suddenly to 
change everything and to bring a new signifi¬ 
cance and beauty. 

Glafira was asleep when the first cries 
reached the yard. 

“Fire! Fire! . . . We’re on fire!” 

She threw a large shawl round her shoulders 
and ran out onto the steps in the yard. 

The night was warm and sultry, and the 
nearness of the blaze intensified the heat. Gla¬ 
fira stood in the doorway behind Mother 
[ 36 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


anxiously listening to the noise of the fire and 
the hubbub. The bells went on ringing, now 
near, now further away, and it looked as 
though the flames were spreading. From the 
steps silhouetted against the crimson back¬ 
ground the black figures of Klim Ivanovich 
and the workmen stood out: they were gesticu¬ 
lating to each other and continually stooping 
to pour water on the falling sparks. The sky 
behind the roof was brilliantly lit up, and this 
made the space between the barns seem even 
more black and ominous. Only the rattling 
chain of the dog straining in terror sounded in 
the darkness. 

Pulling her shawl closer round her naked 
shoulders, Glafira stood there, weirdly beauti¬ 
ful and transfigured in the red glare of the 
flames. Zakhar, who had been to the fire, came 
running back to see that they were all right. 
He was black with soot and smoke, but gay 
and cheerful. He caught sight of Glafira and 
stared at her in astonishment. 

“Well, little Sister!” he called out merrily. 
“See how it blazes! not afraid, are you?” 

[ 37 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


Glafira made no reply, and went on staring 
fixedly at the fire, the reflection of which was 
kindling glimmering sparks in her black eyes. 

Zakhar climbed up the steps to watch and 
stood by her side. 

“You’re not afraid?” he repeated. 

Glafira slowly turned and looked straight 
into his eyes, and in her long silent stare there 
was something that threw Zakhar into con¬ 
fusion. 

“Why do you look at me like that?” He 
cut short his question, and his voice trembled 
a little. Glafira however, turned in silence 
and slowly vanished in the darkness of the hall. 

Zakhar remained standing on the steps and 
suddenly he forgot the fire, his Mother and 
everything else in the world. A sudden mad 
thought darted through his brain and with a 
wrench uprooted all his feelings. Everything 
that until now had seemed monstrous suddenly 
appeared as possible and palpably near. It 
was all so weird—the night, the fire, the crack¬ 
ling of the flames, the ringing of the church 
bells in alarm, the darkness and the glare, and 
[ 38 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


above all, the strange new expression on Gla¬ 
fira’s face. On such a night as this everything 
was possible and nothing was terrible. 

He was still hesitating when his Mother said 
in a severe, scolding tone: 

“There’s nothing to stare at. . . . It isn’t 
a holiday! . . . Why doesn’t someone light the 
Holy Lamp? . . . Glafira! Glafira!” 

Glafira did not answer. She stood in the 
dark hall where she could see the steps and 
Zakhar’s tall figure lit up by the blaze. She 
heard her mother-in-law call, but she was over¬ 
come with a strange weakness and could not 
answer. A mysterious unrecognised power 
was at work in her. What she was waiting for 
Glafira did not know herself, but if Zakhar 
had called her just then she would have gone 
to him, ready for everything, with head erect, 
without shame, or fear, and at all costs. And 
if anyone had tried to stop her she might have 
killed him but she would have gone on just 
the same. 

“Glafira!” Mother called again. “What’s 
the matter with her? Has she gone deaf ? . . . 

[ 39 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


Go and tell her to light the Holy Lamp in 
front of the Ikon, Zakhar!” 

Zakhar turned obediently and stepped into 
the darkness. He felt as though his legs must 
give way. He did not know where Glafira 
was, but as soon as the stifling damp air of the 
house closed round him he knew at once that 
she was very near, waiting for him. 

Glafira stood in the dark hall and against 
the lighted square of the doorway saw Zakhar 
coming straight towards her. But she did not 
move from where she stood and he had hardly 
taken five steps when he ran into her with the 
full impact of his body. He knew only too 
well who was standing against him, but for 
some reason or other he uttered a low hysteri¬ 
cal whisper: 

“Who is there?” 

Glafira neither spoke nor stirred. Zakhar 
put out his hand and in the darkness touched 
something cool and smooth and delicate like 
the petal of a flower. His senses swam and 
unable to restrain himself any longer he tried 
to put his arm round her. Glafira slipped 
[ 40 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


away into the darkness and vanished, but her 
hot breath brushed his neck and cheek with a 
dry flame. Zakhar could not have told 
whether she had kissed him or not. For some 
time he stood transfixed. Then he turned and 
walked slowly out onto the steps. His knees 
were trembling and his brow was wet. 

Outside he met Klim Ivanovich coming up 
the stairs heavily, growling: 

“I’m sure they set fire to it. I know these 
damned Peasants!” 

It was much darker already in the yard. 
The ringing of the bells had ceased and the 
saffron bell-tower had faded into grey. Behind 
the black barns the crowd was still agog and 
excited and the crackling of the fire could still 
be heard. But there were no longer any danc¬ 
ing sparks, and there was nothing more for the 
men on the roofs to do. They climbed down 
one after another, jumping heavily into the 
darkness and gaily chaffing each other. 

Klim Ivanovich stopped for a moment, 
looked at Zakhar and said, not without a touch 
of malice: 


[ 41 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


“A heavy loss for Solodovnikoff. What has 
not been burned is ruined.” 

Zakhar did not reply. The sight of his 
brother and the sound of his voice roused in 
him a deep and cowardly shame. He suddenly 
came to his senses and realised with horror 
what he had been on the brink of doing. His 
feeling was so intense that it drained away 
every drop of blood from his face. He walked 
quickly down the steps and went away from 
the house into the empty darkness of the yard. 

“So that’s it! . . . That’s how it is!” kept 
ringing in his head: but in the tips of his fin¬ 
gers, spreading right through the whole of 
his body, was still the lingering sensation of 
something cool, smooth and delicate like the 
petal of a flower. He heard Klim Ivanovich’s 
voice calling Glafira in the distance and he 
suddenly conceived such a hatred for his 
brother that his heart throbbed. 

The fire had died down entirely and every¬ 
thing all round was as dark as the heart of the 
forest at night. The glass shutters of the 
[ 42 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


verandah still showed a reddish glow, and the 
windows of the house were feebly lighted. The 
little lamps in front of the Ikons had been lit. 
Zakhar stood near the unlit barn, looking at 
the house, and he did not know what to do. 

At last he realised clearly that he was on the 
verge of committing a deadly sin, for which 
there was forgiveness on earth hut not in 
Heaven. But though he knew this he was tor¬ 
mented by an intolerable passionate desire that 
became an increasing torture. 

He had a feeling that it did not matter what 
happened now, and that sooner or later this 
thing must be. But mingled with his burning 
sense of guilt there surged in him so fierce an 
impatience of desire that it turned into a be¬ 
wildering hatred of Glafira. 

So brooding Zakhar paced up and down the 
yard, sometimes going out into the square, 
which seemed wider and emptier than ever in 
the faint glimmer of the dawn. For a long 
time he stood bareheaded on the mound and 
watched the sky grow pale and the white 
[ 43 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


houses of the town loom slowly out of the 
darkness. 

He did not go to bed until behind the dark 
roofs spread a wide band of morning red and 
the first peasant women came trotting up the 
main street with baskets and milk cans on their 
way to market. 

Nor did Glafira sleep. She lay beside her 
husband who snored and often stirred in his 
slumber, staring with wide strained eyes into 
the darkness. The huge, sweaty, sticky body 
of the man smelled oppressively of stale linen. 
Glafira suffered from the heat. She pressed 
herself against the cold hard wall and fastidi¬ 
ously avoided touching her husband. Zakhar’s 
face was always before her, and on her shoul¬ 
ders and her breast she could feel the touch of 
his hands. When she remembered how she had 
deliberately flung open her shawl, Glafira 
closed her eyes in shame. But at the same time 
she wanted the memory of it to last forever. 
Her whole body burned and ached for him, and 
writhed shamelessly and voluptuously in the 
[ 44 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


hot bed, urged on by her sweet guilty thoughts. 
And then she suddenly remembered what a 
terrible sin it was, and she shrank together. 

But like Zakhar, she also knew that for some 
reason it was inevitable and that to fight 
against it would be in vain. 


[ 45 ] 




CHAPTER V 


Next day Klim Ivanovich did not drive off 
as usual but stayed at home to look over the 
accounts. When Glafira saw this she was 
thrown into consternation, and this forced her 
to recognise her unavowed hope. 

“God Almighty! What am I thinking of?” 
And she fought against it in desperation. 

It was mid-July and the roofs of the houses 
glowed and glittered in the intolerable sun 
while the sky was a depressing opaque blue. 
A few ruffled chickens squatted under the 
hedges, never moving from their shade. The 
dog chained in the yard lay panting with his 
tongue hanging and dripping saliva by his 
kennel. And even the dry dusty steppe grass 
drooped and seemed to wither in the terrific 
heat. Sennoy Square was as quiet as the grave 
and exhaled a quivering cloud of vapour, while 
[ 46 ] 


THE SAVAGE 


the little white houses across the way gleamed 
like white hot irons searing the eyes. 

Klim Ivanovich sat red and perspiring in his 
vest, clicking the bones in his reckoner, almost 
covering them with his fat moist fingers. Anna 
Petrovna made never a sound and a dead si¬ 
lence reigned over the whole house, broken only 
by the buzzing of millions of sticky black flies. 

Zakhar never left his room all day long, for 
it was cooler there because his windows looked 
out on the verandah. He did not see Glafira 
nor did he know where she was, but the invis¬ 
ible tie between them held firm. Zakhar tried 
to work, but he could think of nothing but Gla¬ 
fira, his whole being maddeningly aware of her 
presence in the house. 

Nothing was changed. The same old fur¬ 
niture, the objects to which he had been ac¬ 
customed all his life, surrounded him, but he 
was overwhelmed with shame like a thief wait¬ 
ing for his opportunity, feeling as though 
everybody in the house knew what he was 
thinking, and longing and waiting for. 

The fact that Klim Ivanovich was at home 
[ 47 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


to prevent Glafira coming to him reassured 
Zakhar and at the same time maddened him, 
while Glafira was consmned with a fever of im¬ 
patience. She wandered through the house 
like a lost soul from bedroom to kitchen, and 
kitchen to the steps, staring dismally at the 
dusty blue sky and the empty yard, then tried 
to busy herself with her domestic duties, giving 
orders to the cook, but one thought only ham¬ 
mered incessantly in her brain: Zakhar was 
waiting for her, Zakhar was waiting. 

Why she wanted to go to Zakhar she did 
not know. The impulse was stronger than 
herself and like an unswerving doom. 

Unconsciously wrestling with herself, Gla¬ 
fira tried to find some fresh occupation, but 
her needlework dropped from her hands. At 
last in desperation she went to her mother-in- 
law and asked if she might go into the town 
to buy some thread. 

“Wait until after dinner and well go to¬ 
gether,” said Mother. 

And Glafira resigned herself to her fate. 
She went into the corridor, stealthily listened 
[ 48 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


to the clatter of the counters in the room where 
Klim Ivanovich was working, and stole like a 
mouse into Zakhar’s room. 

As she passed her bedroom door she saw her 
husband bending over his reckoner, and it 
seemed to her that Klim Ivanovich turned and 
looked round—but this did not stop her. 

Zakhar was sitting at the table. He did not 
rise when he saw Glafira, nor did he say any¬ 
thing. But his face grew paler. For one mo¬ 
ment Glafira stopped on the threshold with 
her hand on the lintel, and her head thrown 
back, watching intently for any sign of life 
in the corridor behind her. Then she tore her¬ 
self away from the door and slowly, as though 
it were against her will, went up to Zakhar and 
remained standing in front of him with bowed 
head and hanging arms. She stood beside him 
without looking up, and only after Zakhar had 
taken her hand did she meet his gaze piteously 
in a brief moment of sorrow. A helpless vague 
smile spread across her face, her cheeks red¬ 
dened and she gave a deep sighing breath. 
Zakhar, without rising, put his arms round her 
[ 49 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


and drew her to him. Glafira yielded, and 
through her thin dress he could feel the cool¬ 
ness of her skin. They stayed so for a long 
time as though they did not know what to do 
next. Then Zakhar gently turned her face to 
face with him, took her on his knees and kissed 
her lips, her neck, her breasts. Her skin was 
slightly moist and her lips were soft and sub¬ 
missive. He felt her strong, regular teeth 
through them. She did not return his kisses, 
but, breathing spasmodically, she shut and 
opened her eyes. 

A savage insane lust seized Zakhar. He for¬ 
got that Klim Ivanovich was in the next room 
and that someone might pass the open door at 
any moment. Nothing mattered to him just 
then; nothing else could impinge upon his 
mind. Glafira made no resistance when Zak¬ 
har threw her roughly on the bed. She gave 
herself to him silently, unresistingly. She 
raised her strange slanted, half-closed eyes, 
looked at Zakhar with a happy wondering 
smile and clasped her arms round his neck. 


[ 50 ] 




CHAPTER VI 


Nothing seemed to have changed in the 
house of the Dikoys. Klim Ivanovich con¬ 
ducted his business as before. Mother, as 
usual, lit the Holy Lamps and scolded the 
servants. Petenka, the idiot, ran after the 
girls as was his wont. They all worked, ate, 
slept, swore, and hoarded money in the same 
old way. 

But amid all the commonplace humdrum of 
an existence that seemed to be established for 
all eternity, Glafira and Zakhar now had a life 
of their own, separate, secret, filled with fear 
and joy. 

After Glafira’s first surrender Zakhar was 
possessed by a sombre and almost brutish pas¬ 
sion for his brother’s wife. He could no 
longer look at her untroubled, and every move¬ 
ment she made, her lips, her throat, her figure, 
revealed by the draping of her skirt, disturbed 
[ 51 ] 


THE SAVAGE 


him excruciatingly. All day long he thought 
of only one thing: how to be alone with her. 
He was like a man possessed. The conscious¬ 
ness of the deadliness of their sin gathered like 
a cloud, and if in the midst of their frantic rap¬ 
ture he remembered that Glafira was his own 
brother’s wife, the thought only served to fan 
the blaze of his passion. 

Glafira also lived in a constant fever of ex¬ 
citement. She knew now all the sweetness of 
love and yielded to it body and soul. She grew 
remarkably more beautiful and burst into blos¬ 
som, a radiant being, aflame with sin. Her 
eyes shone, her cheeks were aglow, her lips 
blood red. 

Like Zakhar, Glafira was filled with but one 
desire, and as soon as there was the smallest 
chance she hastened to her love. They met 
wherever they could, in dark attics, behind the 
barns, in the orchard, taking their joy in short, 
hurried, coarsely sensuous caresses almost 
openly under the eyes of the work people 
and even of Klim Ivanovich and his mother. 
Often the merest chance saved them from ex- 

[ 52 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


posure, and Glafira’s heart was constantly in 
the grip of a paralysing dread. But the inces¬ 
sant danger and the impossibility of a complete 
satisfaction were only fuel to their passion. 
They spoke but little; the bond between them 
was purely emotional. 

Glafira lived with Klim Ivanovich as before, 
and it never occurred to her that it could be 
otherwise. Her life with him exhausted and 
irritated her, but she never refused him, and 
Klim Ivanovich was without suspicion. And, 
as for Zakhar, he never gave a thought to it. 
Glafira was Klim Ivanovich’s lawful wife and 
their relationship seemed to him the normal 
thing. It was only a chance occurrence that 
roused his dormant jealousy,—a trifling inci¬ 
dent and one look that Glafira gave him. 

On Transfiguration Day Klim Ivanovich 
had a guest to dinner at the house, a wealthy 
and important customer. As it was a feast 
day, they were all dressed in their best, and 
Glafira wore a green silk dress that made her 
look prettier than ever for it went well with 
her black eyes and hair. The meal proceeded 

[ 53 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


ceremoniously and even solemnly; conversa¬ 
tion was in every way polite and discreet. But 
towards the end the atmosphere changed. 
They had emptied three bottles of vodka and 
two of claret. Klim Ivanovich and his guest— 
a dried-up, clean-shaven old man in a long 
black coat—reddened with their liquor and at 
last fell into a jovial mood. Pretty Glafira 
stirred the old man’s senses, and he looked at 
her with his little oily eyes and winked at Klim 
Ivanovich and said: 

“Well, well— So you’re still a young man!” 

Glafira blushed and looked modestly down, 
while Mother, trying to restrain their guest, 
said in affected annoyance: 

“You should not make the young lady bash¬ 
ful, you old sinner!” 

The old man laughed, showing his one de¬ 
cayed tooth, and replied: 

“Come, come, little Mother. . . . Why 
should you make them feel bad about it? In 
our young days you and I were as fond of 
sweets as they.” 

After dinner everybody went out with the 

[ 54 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


guest, Klim Ivanovich and Zakhar taking him 
as far as his carriage to pay their respects, 
while Glafira and Mother stood on the steps, 
with their arms folded under thin silk shawls. 

After the last words had been said the old 
man climbed into his smart carriage, took the 
reins, looked at Glafira, and said with a wink 
at Klim Ivanovich: 

“A pretty little wife. . . . But not for my 
sort!” And he laughed and flicked his horse, 
which was plump and well-fed as became a 
wealthy merchant. 

The barefooted stable boy who was in at¬ 
tendance jumped nimbly onto the carriage as 
it started to move, seated himself behind his 
master, and the carriage swung with a jerk 
through the open gateway. The old man sat 
on the box, stiff as a board and no one looking 
at his bony rigid back could have guessed that 
only a short while before he was laughing and 
joking. Behind him with his hare legs tucked 
up the stable boy bobbed up and down with 
every movement of the carriage. 

[ 55 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


After their guest was out of sight they all 
went back into the house. 

“Well, he has brought us good luck,” said 
Mother, referring to the business that had just 
been concluded. 

But Klim Ivanovich had something else on 
his mind. His face was flushed, and, obviously 
excited by the old man’s allusions, as he passed 
his wife he touched her breast playfully and 
blinked at her. 

“O! stop that!” said Glafira irritably, and 
she swept with an angry rustle of her silks out 
of the room. 

“Now, she’s angry!” laughed Klim Ivano¬ 
vich, and turning to his brother he said with 
a burst of pride: 

“I’ve a handsome young wife, eh?” 

Zakhar replied mechanically with an under¬ 
standing smile. He was just thinking that his 
drunken brother would soon go to sleep and 
that his mother would retire early and then 
Glafira would come to him! His brother’s 
words sounded like a hint and embarrassed 
him. 


[ 56 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


Zakhar’s hopes, however, bore no fruit. 
Klim Ivanovich’s playful mood seemed to per¬ 
sist, and when Mother and Glafira had put 
away the wine bottles and the cakes Zakhar 
sat by the window trembling with impatience, 
looking out at the square until Klim Ivano¬ 
vich was heard calling from the bedroom: 

“Glafirochka!” 

The peculiarly slyly blithe tone of his voice 
made Glafira and Zakhar realise at once what 
he was calling her for, and Glafira gave Zak¬ 
har a quick furtive look of burning anger, dis¬ 
appointment, womanly shame, that drove the 
blood gushing to his head. 

“Glafira!” Klim Ivanovich called a second 
time. 

Glafira put down the plate in her hands and 
submissively obeyed the summons. She had 
to pass Zakhar, touching him with her gown, 
but she did not glance at him and disappeared 
into her room. 

Mother had gone to bed and the house was 
suddenly filled with a desolate silence. Zak¬ 
har sat alone in his room waiting for Glafira 
[ 57 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


to come, although he knew all the time that 
she would not. Hope betrayed roused a 
poignant rage in his breast and now a new pas¬ 
sion invaded his soul with its fire. For the 
first time he realised fully that Glafira did not 
belong to him alone. He felt as though he 
could see through the walls and his inflamed 
imagination created brutal visions of the scene. 
His blood boiled and his breast was crushed 
beneath such a seeming weight that he could 
hardly breathe. 

He tried to comfort himself with the thought 
that Glafira was not to blame, that she was his 
brother’s lawful wife and must fulfil his lustful 
demands. But this did not relieve his torment 
because it seemed to him that the cure of the 
matter lay not in the exigencies of the law so 
much as in the fact that she herself found 
pleasure in her husband’s arms. 

This idea was so horrible that Zakhar was 
at the mercy of his fury and despair. He 
wanted to roar out, to break into the room, 
to tear Glafira by her hair from the bed, and 
[ 58 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


shame her before everybody, or even to kill 
her. 

But he dared not move, and his anguish was 
beyond endurance. 

In the evening they drank tea in the veran¬ 
dah. The purple hazy sun sank slowly behind 
the roofs of the barns, but it was still hot and 
the glass shutters of the verandah seemed as 
though they must melt. The air was stifling. 
Glafira sat with a burning face while little 
straggling wisps of hair clung to her fore¬ 
head as she poured out tea. Mother pursed 
up her parched thin lips and stared with va¬ 
cant heavy eyes as she blew on the hot tea 
in her saucer. Dripping with perspiration, 
not altogether awake after his heavy sleep, 
Klim Ivanovich drank glass after glass of tea. 
All were silent and every now and then sighed 
heavily as they mopped the beads of sweat 
that came rolling down their foreheads. 

Zakhar, stealing sharp, anguished glances at 
Glafira, watched her slyly, and to him she 
seemed calm, happy and contented. He hated 
[ 59 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


her—he hated his brother—and now he longed 
to kill them both. 

Glafira must have felt this in him for her 
hand trembled visibly and she avoided look¬ 
ing in his direction. 

When they had finished tea the sun had 
already set and only a red glow shimmered, 
dwindling slowly behind the roofs. Gentle 
shadows stole over yard and orchard, and re¬ 
vivifying gusts of coolness crept almost im¬ 
perceptibly in their wake. Mother went in¬ 
doors to look after the household and Klim 
Ivanovich went out on the balcony, sat down 
to take the fresh air, unbuttoned his waist¬ 
coat and stared dully at the ground under his 
feet. 

Zakhar was still finishing his tea when Gla¬ 
fira started to clear the table. Reaching across 
for a saucer, she touched his hand timidly and 
softly as if by accident. Zakhar started and 
looked up at her, saw her black, slanted half- 
closed eyes looking up at his beseechingly and 
guiltily. He remembered sharply what he had 
lived through and jerked his hand back angrily. 

[ 60 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


Glafira tried to say something, but Zakhar 
got up and walked out onto the balcony. Gla¬ 
fira followed him with sad startled eyes and 
dropped the saucer. 

“There! What are you breaking now?” ex¬ 
claimed Klim Ivanovich angrily. 

Glafira winced, and, still as a mouse, she 
began to gather up the pieces. 

Zakhar sat on the steps, rolled a cigarette 
and stared at the ground, while Klim Ivano¬ 
vich began to discuss their recent guest. Zak¬ 
har did not hear what he was saying. He was 
listening intently with every sense alert to 
the sound of the footsteps and the broken 
crockery on the verandah. He knew perfectly 
well that he had hurt Glafira brutally and 
cruelly, but that only gave him a perverse, 
malicious joy. 

“She deserves it,” he thought. 

Glafira busied herself for a long time in 
the verandah, and every now and then she 
looked at Zakhar hoping that he would return 
her glances. But Zakhar persistently looked 
the other way and pretended to see nothing. 

[ 61 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


Twice she went into the house and came out 
again: and at last she collected the tea things 
and went in. It was very quiet in the verandah 
and Zakhar suddenly felt a yearning in his 
heart. He was sorry for Glafira and was 
afraid that something might happen. 

But Klim Ivanovich stayed still, his big belly 
hanging, leaning on his arms akimbo, and 
slowly and with a sort of dull philosophical 
satisfaction he said: 

“A clever old boy! . . . Must admit that. 
A fortune of at least half a million and he works 
like the commonest labourer. Think: eighty, 
or even older. There’s a man for you. I’ve 
been to his house. Even the flies pay taxes 
there. His sons are grey-haired already, every 
one of them, but they dare not sit down in his 
presence. No softness about him. He mar¬ 
ried his daughters to the richest men he could 
find. Even the Governor respects him . . . 
and why? Because he knows and has known 
all his life what he wants and has kept to his 
place. . . . T am a merchant,’ says he. ‘And 
I can’t bother about any fancy notions. My 
[ 62 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


business is to increase my fortune and leave 
it to my children and children’s children well 
tied-up so that it shall stay in the family. . . .’ 
All the same he has spent a lot of money on 
women. He is a widower and in spite of his 
years is as lusty as anyone. He loves women. 
Well, what of it? He certainly has worked 
hard all his life and it’s time he had a little 
amusement.” 

Zakhar started out of his reverie. Glafira’s 
white head cloth flashed across the courtyard 
and disappeared behind the house. The gate 
leading into the street closed with a crash. 

“What does a man live for?” mused Klim 
Ivanovich, continuing the conversation at din¬ 
ner in his thoughts. “Everybody wants to 
have his fun and everybody meets the fate he 
carved out for himself. If you’re on top you’re 
all right, and if you’re weak—that’s your bad 
luck. . . . There’s a deal of talk now-a-days 
about freedom and equality. If you want my 
opinion, that’s all nonsense. If you live at 
peace with the law and stick to your business 
no one has any right to touch you. That fel- 
[ 63 ] 






THE SAVAGE 


low there is a workman. I am a merchant. 
You are, let us say, a government official, or 
an officer. Every one of us has his station in 
life. That’s the only way to maintain order 
in the world. If everyone was at the bottom 
and no one at the top, what would happen? 
We’d have Sodom and Gomorrah. Our peo¬ 
ple are an ignorant people. Can they even 
think straight ? Give them freedom and they’d 
be at each other’s throats killing one another. 
That’s all. They are savages. . . . Every 
child can see for himself that everybody can’t 
be rich: there isn’t so much money in the whole 
world. It’s easy to say we don’t want any 
more rich men, we don’t want any more capital, 
but if everyone becomes a beggar . . . who is 
any better off?” 

“Yes. I suppose you are right.” Zakhar 
agreed without listening. He was wondering 
in anguish where Glafira could have gone. 

“Now, I’ll tell you something,” Klim Ivano¬ 
vich continued more excitedly. “Everybody 
wants to eat and that is why everybody must 
work for the good of the country. If you give 

[ 64 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


a man bread for nothing, do you think he will 
ever work again? . . . He would not dream 
of it. Besides it is written that work was given 
to man not for his pleasure, but as a punish¬ 
ment, and what man will deliberately punish 
himself of his own free will? . . . Men need 
a stick to shove them along.” 

“Klim Ivanovich,” said a workman who had 
come up the steps, taking off his cap. “The 
people are waiting. You promised them their 
wages today.” 

“Promised! Promised!” mimicked Klim 
Ivanovich irritably, the cheerful expression of 
his face changing to one of anger. “Can’t I 
have a moment’s talk in peace?” 

Zakhar did not wait to hear more, but got 
up and went indoors. It was already dark and 
very quiet in the house as though it were de¬ 
serted. Zakhar put on his cap, stood hesitat¬ 
ing in the middle of the room and then sud¬ 
denly ran on tiptoe down the passage and 
out by the back door. 

Outside the gate the workmen were stand¬ 
ing in little knots or sitting on a bench. They 
[ 65 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


smoked, spat and every now and then swore 
at somebody or other. When Zakhar came out 
by the back door they all fell silent and fol¬ 
lowed him with their glances. When he had 
gone some distance one of them said softly but 
distinctly: 

“He’s after his sweetheart.” 

And they all broke into a loud laugh. It 
was like a herd of colts neighing. 

Zakhar heard the words, but his thoughts 
were so full of Glafira that he did not under¬ 
stand their terrible meaning. Feigning in¬ 
difference he strolled slowly to the middle of 
the square, climbed to the top of the mound 
and at once caught sight of Glafira. 

She was crossing the river and her light head 
cloth shone brightly in the grey solitude. Zak¬ 
har guessed at once where she was going. 
Beyond the bridge was a wide green meadow, 
the edge of which was bathed by the river, 
with stout old willows growing at the water’s 
edge. Here Glafira and he had often met, and 
Glafira must have walked across the yard on 
purpose to make sure of his following her. 

[ 66 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


Carefully, quietly, Zakhar descended the 
mound, looked round once more and then fol¬ 
lowed Glafira almost at a run. 

The evening mists were already hanging 
over the river, and it was quite cool there. Be¬ 
ing a holiday the smithy was closed and there 
was no one on the bridge. Zakhar turned into 
the meadow. 

Glafira was walking far ahead of him along 
a path that had been trodden deep into the 
thick, damp grass. Her white head cloth flut¬ 
tered bright and gay above the dark green 
pasture. 

She heard Zakhar’s footsteps, but did not 
look round and walked straight on as though 
bent on some errand, and not until they were 
behind the willows did she turn to meet him 
with a pleading, piteous smile. 

Zakhar looked at her red lips, her soft round 
shoulders, her ripe passionately vivid form and 
Glafira seemed more beautiful to him than 
ever: but her guilty smile set alight such a 
blind rage in him that for a time he was almost 
stunned. 


[ 67 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


The expression in his eyes must have been 
terrible for the smile suddenly died from her 
lips, and she turned pale. 

“Zarj a! What’s the matter with you ? Zar- 
ja!” she stammered, raising her arms to shield 
herself. 

And as though her gesture had decided him, 
Zakhar raised his fist and struck her on the 
head. She uttered a low moan and swayed 
where she stood. The white head cloth fell 
from her shoulders and her comb slipped from 
her hair into the grass. With a savage joy 
Zakhar struck her once more and Glafira fell 
to her hands and knees and burst into tears. 

A feeling of horror, pity and despair seized 
Zakhar. In one bewildered moment he stood 
gazing at her as she sobbed and then he walked 
quickly away and stood still with his throbbing 
brow pressed against the cold rough bark of 
an old willow. A dark void filled his soul. It 
seemed to him that everything must be ended 
between them. 

“Now everything is ended . . . ended!” was 
the one thought turning in his brain. 

[ 68 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


But suddenly two soft warm arms came 
stealing round his neck from behind and Gla¬ 
fira's supple burning form was pressed to him 
tight—tight. Unable to trust his senses, Zak¬ 
har turned round: Glafira hung round his 
neck, looking up to him with her wide slanted 
black eyes wet with tears and on her lips a 
strange smile of exultation. 

“Beat me. . . . He beat me. . . . What a 
man he is,” she muttered deliriously. 

Jealousy, fear, despair vanished suddenly. 
Zakhar himself did not know how it came about 
that a moment later they were lying in the 
moist tall grass that shut them off from the 
rest of the world with its green wall. 

Afterwards they sat for a long while by the 
river. Glafira leaned her breast against Zak¬ 
har’s knees and slipping her soft warm fingers 
into his she said plaintively: 

“Do you think I am not tortured, too? He 
is so old and ugly and I do not love him. Often 
I would rather drown myself. But what can 
I do, Zarja? ... If I refuse he will guess, 
and what then? . . 


[69] 




THE SAVAGE 


Zakhar listened to her, gazed at the darken¬ 
ing orchards across the river and was silent. 
His excitement had gone: gloom and jealousy 
rankled in his breast, but his gloom was tran¬ 
quil and his jealousy was dulled with weariness. 

“If only he would die. . . . Eh? . . 
whispered Glafira, and she bent her head still 
lower so that Zakhar could not see her face. 

Zakhar was repelled, but once again he was 
silent. 

“I feel like poisoning him. God help me. 
. . . Really. ... I wouldn’t hesitate ... !” 

For a moment a dark exultant happiness 
flooded through him, but he regained his senses 
and a shiver ran through him. “Don’t talk 
nonsense,” he said. 

“That isn’t nonsense,” she replied stub¬ 
bornly and gloomily, bending still lower across 
his knees until Zakhar could feel her warm 
breathing. 

“Well . . . and what then?” he asked after 
a while with an awkward smile. 

Glafira dropped her head to his lap and her 
fingers lay still in his hand. 

[ 70 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


“Then ... we shall see what happens,” she 
replied hardly audibly. 

Neither spoke and for a while they sat mo¬ 
tionless. From the depths of the meadow 
came a loud, shrill whistle. Glafira started, 
raised her head and leaped to her feet in terror. 

“Jesus . . . Maria, what shall we do?” 

Only now did Zakhar observe that it had 
grown quite dark. Far away, above the out¬ 
lined roofs and churches, there still lingered a 
pale green strip of sunset, but the sky was 
already dark and faint stars began to glimmer 
in its depths. Clouds of mist hovered above 
the river and all around was a gruesome void. 

Zakhar held his breath. At home they must 
have sat down to supper long ago and of course 
they must have been missed. Terror clutched 
both of them as they walked swiftly across the 
meadow, stumbling in the grass. 

They could see the light in the dining room 
some distance away, and this could only mean 
that supper had begun. They walked faster 
and faster. Glafira almost ran. Her knees 
[ 71 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


gave way through fear and her breath came 
chokingly. 

Near the gate loomed a black figure coming 
towards them. Glafira involuntarily darted 
aside. She fancied she recognised Klim Ivano¬ 
vich. Zakhar instinctively stepped forward 
with clenched fists. Next moment, however, 
they heard Petenka’s familiar bleat. Grin¬ 
ning all over his face the idiot confronted them. 

“What do you want?” asked Zakhar trem¬ 
bling. 

Petenka gave vent to a few quick grunts, 
pointed towards the house and wrinkled his 
brow. He was trying to convey that Klim 
Ivanovich was angry. Then he pointed first to 
Glafira and then to himself with his fingers. 

“Walkie . . . walkie . . . walkie,” he grunted. 

Zakhar was immensely relieved. He under¬ 
stood that Petenka knew everything and—to 
protect them—was suggesting that Glafira 
should say she had been for a walk with him. 

“You’re a fine lad, Petenka,” said Zakhar. 
“Glasha, go with him. . . . Say that you have 
been out together. . . . Think of something. 

[ 72 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


. . . I’ll come later as though I had been to 
town.” 

Glafira nodded but did not move. She was 
still afraid. 

“Go. Go. It will be afi right.” 

Zakhar gave her a gentle push, turned 
round and walked quickly towards the town. 

He heard the gate close and immediately 
afterwards the creaking of the steps. 

And now for the first time he remembered 
the words of the workmen outside the gate 
earlier in the evening and he realised that not 
only Petenka, but all the work people and 
perhaps the whole town knew of his relations 
with Glafira. The thought of it made him 
shiver and he felt as though he were standing 
at the awful edge of a bottomless abyss. 


[73] 





CHAPTER VII 


In fact, everybody in the house except 
Mother and Klim Ivanovich knew about Zak¬ 
har and Glafira. Everybody knew but kept 
quiet because Klim Ivanovich was disliked and 
they enjoyed the injury that was being put 
upon him. The old people censured Zakhar 
and Glafira, but the young people joked about 
it and thought Zakhar a fine fellow. 

“Why shouldn’t he? . . . He’s right. . . . 
Look at the pretty little wife he’s landed right 
under the old man’s nose. Serves the old fool 
right. A grizzled bridegroom and a young 
bride are bound for Hell.” 

Klim Ivanovich began to notice that when¬ 
ever the idiot Petenka stood behind him, the 
work girls used to giggle and hide their faces 
in their hands, but every time he turned round 
he was met only by the dull idiotic face with 
its expressionless eyes. 

[ 74 ] 


THE SAVAGE 


“I’ll catch you yet,” he would say to Peten- 
ka, shaking his fist threateningly. 

Nevertheless, he determined to find out what 
was going on, and on one occasion managed to 
catch Petenka putting his fingers to his fore¬ 
head in the shape of horns. 

Klim Ivanovich said nothing and pretended 
not to have seen. His face was gloomy, how¬ 
ever, when he returned shortly to the house, 
where he met Glafira walking cheerfully and 
happily down the passage. He stood aside and 
followed her with a dour suspicious look. 

At dinner he kept on glancing furtively at 
his wife and for the first time remarked the 
glorious womanhood into which she had 
bloomed. 

“A viper. ... A regular viper. . . 
thought Klim Ivanovich and a violent jealous 
rage boiled up in him. 

He suddenly remembered how flirtatious and 
gay Glafira had been as a girl and how many 
admirers she had then. The terrible thought 
that she might have had lovers even before 
marriage struck Klim Ivanovich sharply and 

[ 75 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


dazed him. And it seemed more than possible 
to him. 

“Who can tell? . . . I was blind at the time. 
And the whole village are a dirty lot. Her 
father, for one, is a perfect blackguard.” 

Klim Ivanovich remembered how quickly 
and gladly his proposal had been accepted. At 
the time he had ascribed this to his personal 
qualities and his money. Now however, he 
saw matters in a very different light. 

“They were glad to cover up her lightness. 
. . . That’s as clear as daylight . . .” he 
thought, and his fat neck turned purple and 
the blue veins in his temples stood out. 

The more he looked at Glafira the stronger 
grew his torturing suspicions. Klim Ivanovich 
had no longer any doubt that his wife had 
a lover, but he could not imagine who that lover 
might be. Zakhar never entered his head: that 
would have been such a sin, such a disgrace, 
that he could not even begin to conceive the 
idea. 

Yet Glafira never went out alone. She was 
always under his own or his Mother’s eyes. 

[ 76 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


For a moment Klim Ivanovich thought of one 
of the workmen, but he dismissed the idea. His 
wife—no matter how much she betrayed him 
and how much he hated her—seemed to him so 
beautiful that it was unthinkable that she 
could have thrown herself away on a dirty 
Peasant. 

“No. She’s not that kind,” thought Klim 
Ivanovich bitterly. 

But from that day on he knew no peace. 
Tortured by his wounded pride he watched his 
wife’s every step, followed her about, dared not 
sleep at night, saw sin and shame everywhere, 
but never spoke of it to anyone, and let no one 
suspect that he was jealous of his wife. But 
he was gloomy and distracted and ceased to 
wony Glafira with his attentions, and flung 
himself into his business with greater ardour 
than ever. 

A heavy black cloud hung over the Dikoy 
household and even the girls in the kitchen felt 
disaster looming. 

“Some tragedy is going to break,” said 
[ 77 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


Anisya, the cook, with a sigh. “Some misfor¬ 
tune is bound to come, my dears.” 

And Matfei, the old coachman, though he 
did not know himself why, suddenly gave 
notice and asked for his wages. 

Only Zakhar and Glafira had no forebod¬ 
ings. 

After the evening when their unusual ab¬ 
sence together had escaped detection, they lost 
all thought of precaution. If hitherto the in¬ 
itiative had always been with Zakhar while 
Glafira had been restrained by her paralysing 
fear, they now changed roles. Glafira was like 
a woman possessed. She was utterly fearless, 
ran to Zakhar almost under her husband’s eyes 
and one day even went so far as to kiss and 
embrace her lover in her mother-in-law’s pres¬ 
ence when she had turned for a moment to put 
a jar of jelly in the cupboard. 

Zakhar sat as if turned to stone, while Gla¬ 
fira only laughed aloud merrily and when 
Mother asked: “Why are you laughing?” she 
replied carelessly: “Zakhar always makes me 
laugh.” 


[78] 




THE SAVAGE 


Mother looked at her suspiciously, but said 
nothing. 

The old woman also was conscious of some¬ 
thing looming in the air, and was afraid of 
something, but of what she could not have said. 

A few days later Klim Ivanovich went away 
for a whole week on business and his absence 
was a real holiday for Glafira. She threw off 
all caution and restraint, and as soon as Mother 
had gone to sleep she stole into Zakhar’s room 
in her bare feet, wearing nothing but her night 
gown, and warm and elate with expectancy, 
she sprang like a cat into his arms. Her pas¬ 
sion broke all bounds, and she was insatiable 
in her desire. Not until dawn and only when 
the grey morning light crept into the house 
did Glafira leave him, and then Zakhar sank 
into a heavy sleep of weariness. 

All day he was drowsy and exhausted while 
Glafira was happy and gay and more lovely 
than ever. 

Somehow she forgot the possibility of her 
husband’s return and when unexpectedly she 
saw his horse and carriage and the coachman 
[ 79 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


in the courtyard, she was struck down as by 
a terrible sudden disaster. The thought that 
her heaven was over and that she must content 
herself with the old hasty accidental meetings 
was intolerable. 

For a few days she bore it and suppressed 
her craving, but at last it drove her to a des¬ 
perate plunge. 

Klim Ivanovich was asleep with his head 
thrown back, his mouth open, his breath dron¬ 
ing through his lips. A little Ikon lamp was 
burning in the room and weird shadows crept 
fantastically across the walls. The deep quiet 
night was black through the windows. Gla¬ 
fira suddenly raised her head and with her 
fever-shining eyes cast a quick glance at her 
husband. He muttered something in his sleep 
and moved his fat hand. Glafira held her 
breath and for a long time she remained lean¬ 
ing on her elbow, half-erect, never taking her 
eyes off him. Her heart thumped and beat ir¬ 
regularly and her whole body ached with a tor¬ 
turing impatience. A mad idea swept into her 
mind. A cock crowed dismally outside. Gla- 
[ 80 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


fira acceded to her resolve. Cautiously she 
raised her leg above her husband’s ungainly 
trunk, rested on one hand and her other knee, 
lifted herself and in a trice slid to the floor. 
For quite a while she remained fiercely bend¬ 
ing over him watching his every movement, 
ready, it seemed, to hurl herself at him and 
throttle him. Then noiselessly she glided 
away. Klim Ivanovich did not move. In the 
unsteady flickering light of the Ikon lamp, 
wearing only her night gown, with her arms 
and feet bare and her black hair hanging she 
looked weird and awesome like a witch. Then 
she quickly slipped away. 

A little oil lamp that had been turned down 
to a blue flame was smoking in the passage, 
the air was stuffy and close, and on a mattress 
on the floor lay a servant-girl, her arms 
stretched wide apart. 

Glafira stepped by her like a shadow, walked 
along the passage, past Mother’s door, and 
disappeared into Zakhar’s room. She did not 
even notice that the servant-girl raised her 
[ 81 ] 






THE SAVAGE 


sleepy towsled head as she was roused and 
followed her with her eyes. 

“She’s gone to her lover. . . . Isn’t she 
plucky?” thought the girl enviously. 

Zakhar was asleep and his room was in com¬ 
plete darkness. Glafira found the bed and 
touched his feet. Zakhar did not stir. Her 
hands crept over his limbs, his chest, up to his 
face. He started and made a restless move¬ 
ment. 

“Who is there?” he muttered in a sleepy 
hoarse voice. 

Suddenly he grasped a soft bare arm. 

At first he did not even understand who it 
was, but Glafira without a word threw back 
the coverlet and nestled into him. She wound 
her arms round him, pressed close to him, her 
lips sought his in the dark, and her soft web 
of hair spread like a net across his face. Zak¬ 
har was seized with panic. 

“What are you doing, you mad woman?” 
he whispered. 

But Glafira closed his mouth with her lips 
and covered his face, his neck, and his breast 
[ 82 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


with kisses. Indeed, she was like a mad 
woman, afraid of nothing, thinking of nothing, 
lost in a wild lustful frenzy. 

After that she went to him often. At first 
Zakhar tried to dissuade her, but he let things 
take their course and even waited at night for 
her to come to him, feeling that what must be 
must be. 

And one night Klim Ivanovich woke up. A 
strange feeling of emptiness came over him. 
The little Ikon lamp was burning as usual, 
but Glafira’s place was empty and had grown 
cold. At first Klim Ivanovich did not under¬ 
stand. Then all of a sudden as though some¬ 
one had given him a blow he came to himself 
and sat straight up. He wondered whether 
Glafira had got up for a moment, but there 
was no one in the room and the open door 
gaped upon the dark void of the passage. 

All his doubts and suspicions crowded vio¬ 
lently in upon his brain and for the first time 
the unexpected awful thought that it might 
be Zakhar struck him. It completely robbed 
him of his presence of mind. Huge, ominous, 
[ 83 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


grossly uncouth, he sat on his bed with his 
hairy legs hanging and he did not know what 
to do. The thought that had come to him was 
so hideous that he tried to put it away from 
him and to find some other explanation of 
Glafira's absence. 

But just at that moment the darkness of the 
doorway was illumined and a white shadow 
emerged. Glafira slipped nimbly into the 
room. Stirred by the draught the lamp sud¬ 
denly flickered up and lit up her loose dis¬ 
hevelled hair, her bare shoulders and slender 
figure clad only in a torn and crumpled night 
gown. 

At sight of her husband Glafira stood rooted 
and her horror suddenly gave her completely 
away to Klim Ivanovich. 

“A . . . h!” he cried or rather groaned and 
in spite of his huge bulk he sprang swiftly be¬ 
tween Glafira and the door. 

But she had no thought of running away. 
Paralysed with fear, her naked arms held out 
in self-protection, she crept slowly backwards. 
She never even thought of telling him a lie. 

[ 84 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


From his wild terrifying expression she knew 
that lying was no use. Her only movement 
was a feeble effort to catch at his hands as he 
pushed her head and shoulders against the 
wall. Her black eyes, dilated with horror, 
stared rigidly into his. 

All this was in silence. Klim Ivanovich 
wrenched the woman away from the wall into 
the middle of the room with such violence that 
her bare feet hardly touched the floor, and he 
threw her down with a heavy thud. Glafira 
fell on her hands and then on her side: her 
night gown slipped from her shoulders and the 
hem of it crept up to her waist, and almost 
naked, bruised and sore, her face hidden in her 
tangled hair she was pitiful to see, a wild 
beast at bay. 

She did not defend herself, nor did she cry 
out, but only moaned softly as Klim Ivanovich 
pressed her down and began to strike her 
shoulders, breast, belly, with fists, knees, feet. 
Then he dragged her by the hair across the 
room, knocked her down again, beat her with¬ 
out a sound, panting through clenched teeth, 
[ 85 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


possessed only by one desire, to beat her to 
death, at once, on the spot. 

A chair fell with a crash. Glafira fell with 
her head against the table and it shook. The 
reckoner fell to the ground and the counters 
were scattered noisily. The servant-girl sleep¬ 
ing in the passage jumped up in alarm and 
shaking with fear clung to the wall. Mother 
Anna woke up and sat up in bed listening. At 
first she thought that burglars had broken 
into the house, and was about to cry for help 
when she heard Klim’s broken grunts, Glafira’s 
moaning and the sound of blows on a naked 
body. The suspicion, so long and so vaguely 
felt, shot through her brain like a flash of 
lightning and Mother Anna knew at once how 
matters stood. She lifted her hands in terror, 
hastily threw on her skirt and ran out into the 
passage. Meanwhile Anisya the cook had 
come down from the attic and was rousing 
the coachman and the two workmen who slept 
in the kitchen. 

When Mother Anna rushed into the bed¬ 
room the first thing she saw was Glafira’s 
[ 86 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


head with its loose black hair thudding the 
floor and her naked legs kicking convulsively. 

“He’s killing her . . flashed through her 
mind and all her old hatred of her daughter- 
in-law filled her with the evil glee of revenge. 

“Go on! Go on! She deserves it, the 
viper!” 

Zakhar who, as soon as Glafira left him, had 
fallen into a heavy sleep, heard the noise later 
than the rest. At first he did not understand 
the meaning of it, but his Mother’s shrieks told 
him what had happened. 

Anguish and shame overcame him in such 
a flood that for a time he could not move, and 
had only one thought: to hide and pretend 
that the whole business was no concern of his. 
But just then Glafira had reached the end of 
her endurance: a blow on the mouth cut her 
lip. She felt the taste of blood and knew that 
she was on the point of being killed. She gave 
one sharp penetrating shriek. 

This brought Zakhar to his senses. Without 
a thought of what he was doing he sprang from 
[ 87 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


his bed and ran just as he was, in his shirt, 
down the corridor, pushed past his mother and 
rushed into the bedroom. 

At the sight of Glafira lying there naked 
and half dead, with the blood streaming down 
her face, and Klim Ivanovich, half naked, sav¬ 
agely pounding at her, Zakhar sprang at his 
brother like a wild-cat. The unexpectedness 
of the attack made Klim Ivanovich let go of 
his wife, and he fell heavily to the floor, but 
immediately disengaged himself, and with an 
inarticulate roar he gripped Zakhar by the 
throat. 

“A . . . ah! You! . . . You! . . ” he 
yelled, his eyes bulging out of his head. 

His insane fury doubled his strength. Zak¬ 
har was younger and more active, but Klim 
Ivanovich dandled him like a child. Perhaps 
he would have throttled him if Glafira had not 
clutched him by the leg. Klim Ivanovich tried 
to wrench himself away, but she held on with 
all her might, and let him drag her across the 
room. Then he saw that she was defending 
her lover, and in his savage rage, he kicked her 
[ 88 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


on the breast with his foot. Glafira moaned 
and swooned away. 

At this moment the coachman and the work¬ 
men rushed into the room and separated the 
brothers. 

“Klim Ivanovich, what are you doing? . . . 
Control yourself!” the coachman shouted 
breathlessly. 

And Klim Ivanovich seemed suddenly to 
have sobered down. His strength and his fury 
left him simultaneously. He sank heavily into 
a chair and collapsed like an empty sack. His 
hands flopped, his head rolled from side to 
side, he breathed haltingly, panting and hiss¬ 
ing, and with the dull eyes of a drunkard or a 
stricken man he stared straight in front of him 
as though he were no longer conscious of any¬ 
thing. 

Zakhar was still trying to get at his brother, 
but the workmen held him tightly, while his 
Mother, looking like a witch with her bare 
scraggy shoulders and untidy wisps of grey 
hair, tried to scratch his face with her claw-like 
bony fingers, whimpering angrily: 

[ 89 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


“Killing’s too good for you! You thief! 
. . . What have you been doing? You scoun¬ 
drel, you. ... I’ll choke you with my own 
hands.” 

Anisya the cook was screaming at the top 
of her voice. The workmen were yelling, while 
the coachman tried to hold the old woman back, 
saying: 

“Mother Anna! Mother Anna! . . . Have 
you forgotten our Lord?” 

Then suddenly Zakhar saw Glafira’s naked 
body stretched motionless on the floor and he 
thought his brother had really killed her. He 
gave a wild roar and tried to free himself, but 
in vain. For a moment he fought like a mad¬ 
man, then hurling the workmen off, he ran 
down the passage to his own room, tore his 
gun from the wall and raced back with the one 
insane thought of killing his brother there and 
then. 

“Jesus Maria!” shrieked the servant-girl 
seeing the gun, and she ran away. 

Zakhar was not given time to shoot. His 
Mother clutched the gun, the coachman blocked 
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his way, and the workmen gripped him from 
behind. 

He was dragged out, pushed into his own 
room and locked in. For a long time he beat 
on the door with his fists and feet and shouted: 

“Open! Open! Let me out. I’ll kill him 
anyhow. I’ll shoot him like a dog.” 

Then suddenly he ceased. The workmen 
leaning against the door heard him totter 
across the room with leaden footsteps and sink 
heavily on to his bed. 

Glafira was lifted up and put to bed. 
Anisya washed away the blood, bathed her 
face and tried to revive her. Mother Anna 
led Klim Ivanovich to her own room. 

He obeyed her like a little child. She made 
him sit down on the edge of her couch, and he 
stayed sitting there until the mofning, his 
head bowed to his chest, his dull eyes rivetted 
to the floor. 

Mother Anna wept for a long time, cursing 
Glafira, to whom she attached all the blame, 
but Klim Ivanovich did not speak all night. 

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Presently the house was silent: only the 
workmen whispered in the kitchen and Pe- 
tenka, the idiot, shut up in the attic, roared 
like a bull with fright, until his mother 
screamed at him: 

<4 Will you be quiet, you curse of God, you!” 


[92] 




CHAPTER VIII 


They let Zakhar out in the morning. He 
was pale and would not raise his eyes. 

“Do you know what you ought to do, Zak¬ 
har Ivanovich? ... You ought to go to the 
farm for a little,” suggested the coachman. 
“In fact, I have already harnessed the horses. 
Your Mother agrees. Otherwise something’ll 
happen. . . . You’re all so hot-blooded!” 

Zakhar pondered and then agreed. It was 
impossible for him to stay. He dressed and 
slipped through the back door into the yard, 
and got into the waiting carriage, casting a 
swift look at the bedroom window. Some 
strangers were standing at the gate looking at 
him in a curious silence. 

Klim Ivanovich heard the clatter of the 
wheels and guessed that Zakhar had driven 
away. 

“He has gone,” said Mother. 

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Klim Ivanovich turned his head away and 
made no reply. 

Glafira did not appear all day. One of her 
eyes was badly hurt, her upper lip was swollen, 
giving her a strange and oddly capricious ex¬ 
pression. She lay in her bed, rolled up into a 
ball, with her head enveloped in a large warm 
shawl. Her whole body ached and her arms 
and legs felt as though they had been racked. 
She no longer thought of Zakhar nor of her 
own disgrace. Her whole soul was filled with 
panic at the thought of meeting her husband. 
She was sure that he would kill her. 

But Klim Ivanovich did not visit his wife. 
Mother Anna came to her once or twice. 
Every time Glafira heard the old woman com¬ 
ing she buried her head under the bedclothes, 
and turned cold with fear and shame. Mother 
Anna looked at her with growing hatred and 
hissed: 

“So there you are, you viper! . . . Lie 
there! Lie there! . . . O! So you’re hiding 
your monkey-face! Ashamed to look people 
in the face! You snake in the grass! You 
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ought to be crushed! ... You just wait! 
Just you wait!” 

But as soon as Mother had gone Anisya, the 
cook, comforted her. 

“Courage, my little dove! No one is proof 
against temptation and sin! Just a little time, 
and it will be all right. If he beats you you 
won’t die. A woman can endure a lot if she 
has once been happy. He won’t kill you. 
Don’t be afraid. . . . After all, you are his 
wife.” 

Klim Ivanovich appeared in the yard at the 
usual hour as though nothing had happened. 
He looked drawn and haggard and had aged 
much during the night, but he moved about 
and gave his orders as usual. The girls and 
workmen, who for some reason had thought 
they could take it easy, quickly learned their 
mistake, and went about their work hardly 
daring to look at their master, and carried 
out his orders with almost slavish haste. At 
times Klim Ivanovich caught their furtive and 
almost hostile glances but he affected to take 
no notice. 


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He dined alone with his Mother, but ate 
very little and drank no vodka. The one bitter 
thought seemed utterly to occupy him. When 
his Mother began to curse and abuse Glafira 
he remained silent as though she were talking 
of things that were no concern of his. Only, 
when the old woman reported that she had 
learned from the servants that Glafira had 
been carrying on with Zakhar for a long time, 
Klim Ivanovich smiled bitterly and nodded. 
He was thinking how all that time Zakhar 
had looked at him in the eyes as though noth¬ 
ing had happened, and Glafira had been his 
wife. 

The thought that oppressed him most was 
that the whole town was now talking about his 
shame. Then he reflected that a division of 
the estate between himself and his brother had 
now become inevitable, and that the business 
would suffer. Both ideas were tormenting, 
but Klim Ivanovich found comfort in the 
thought that the disgrace would be forgotten 
in time and that it was easy to take advantage 
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of Zakhar as he knew very little about the 
business and was anyhow very careless. 

Klim Ivanovich gave little thought to his 
wife. He never even thought of getting rid 
of Glafira or of separating from her. This 
was not the custom in their station of life. 
Glafira was his lawful wife and his lawful wife 
she must remain. “Whom God hath joined let 
no man put asunder. . . .” True, his wife 
had dishonoured him, and when he pictured 
her with Zakhar his mind began to reel. But 
he knew exactly what to do with her. He must 
give her a severe lesson, inflict punishment, 
knock every sinful thought out of her head once 
and for all. 

At dusk a workman came from the mill and 
bashfully reported that the labourers were 
waiting for their wages. 

“As Zakhar Ivanovich left no instructions, 
I don’t know.” 

Klim Ivanovich turned his back on him, said 
nothing for a time, then took his cap and 
walked slowly across the yard. The work¬ 
man hurried after him with his cap in his hand. 

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Mother Anna had gone to evening Mass 
some time ago, and the whole house was as 
quiet as though no one had ever lived in it. 
Glafira got up, wrapped herself in a big shawl 
and walked silently down the steps and into 
the orchard. She slipped along like a shadow, 
looking nervously about, listening to every 
little sound, and when she was sure that no 
one was watching her, she sat down on the 
steps gazing up at the evening sky in a reverie. 

There was no one about and the great yard 
with its untidy wilderness of grass stretched 
before her as desolate as a graveyard. Now 
and then she could hear the dog at the back 
of the barn rattling his chain, and somewhere 
in the shed the last crow of a rooster settling 
down for the night. The old willow tree 
gently swayed its long branches and far away 
the sunset slowly faded behind the roofs and 
churches. 

It was hard to say of what Glafira was 
thinking. Fragmentary thoughts melted into 
visions. All that she had lived through, her 
wild sinful love, passionate ecstasies, inextin- 
[ 98 ] 




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guishable shame, and that last night of terror 
seemed to slide away from her, to grow fainter 
and fainter like a dream. She did not think 
of what was to come. She did not care. She 
knew that she would be beaten and tortured, 
but the knowledge only stirred a dull, dreary 
melancholy in her. 

Someone crossed the courtyard and came 
into the orchard. Glafira heard footsteps, 
started, made a move to rise, but, recognising 
Petenka, stayed where she was. He was per¬ 
haps the only person now before whom she 
was neither ashamed nor afraid. She knew 
that he would not strike her nor insult her nor 
laugh at her. 

The idiot stood still hesitating and looked at 
Glafira from a distance. It was hard to say 
whether he gazed in alarm or compassion, but 
there was something very human and under¬ 
standing in his dull little eyes. 

Glafira smiled at him faintly and sadly. 
All at once the idiot came to life and he bleated 
and babbled forth a number of incomprehen- 
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sible sounds, while he gesticulated frantically 
and nodded his head emphatically. 

“What do you want, Petenka?” asked Gla¬ 
fira kindly, although the sound of her own 
voice gave her a dreadful throbbing in her 
bruised temple. 

The idiot went up to her, raised his arm and 
put his dirty finger to her cut lip. His eyes 
unmistakably expressed a genuinely human 
pity and anger, but Glafira felt ashamed of 
her own unsightliness and covered herself with 
her shawl. Petenka grunted again, gave two 
little steps backward, made a gesture as though 
he were aiming at someone with a gun and in 
a sharp shrill voice like a parrot cried: 

“Pha!” 

Glafira thought he was trying to say that 
Zakhar would shoot Klim Ivanovich for hav¬ 
ing beaten her and cold shivers ran down her 
back. Only now did she begin to understand 
what a fearful calamity she had brought on 
the family and how it might all end. Her 
soul seemed suddenly to awake. Glafira 
[ loo] 



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thought of Zakhar, and her heart throbbed 
with fear for him, her lover. 

“Petenka! Petenka!” she stammered, 
clutching the idiot’s sleeve. “What are you 
saying? May the Lord save me from such 
harm! O, Petenka, I implore you, put that 
out of your head. . . . Such a sin! Tell Zak¬ 
har Ivanovich that I beg him for Christ’s sake 
not to think of such a thing.” 

But the idiot shook his head obstinately and 
repeated the strange sharp sound: 

“Pha!” 

Glafira tried to say something else, but just 
then the little gate banged and Klim Ivano¬ 
vich’s voice was heard in the yard. She turned 
pale, jumped up and with a bound disappeared 
indoors. Klim Ivanovich had already reached 
the kitchen. Like a mouse Glafira crept into 
her room, threw herself on the bed, hid her 
face under her shawl and lay numbed and 
shrunken. The blood throbbed in her temples 
unsteadily and painfully. 

Klim Ivanovich had returned morose and 
determined. At the mill, which had always 
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been in Zakhar’s hands so that Klim Ivanovich 
had never paid much attention to it, work was 
going on as usual. But it seemed to him now 
that everything was badly neglected, and he 
foresaw heavy losses. 

“Of course,” Klim Ivanovich smiled grimly. 
“That is understandable. He had no time for 
business.” 

This idea increased his hatred of his wife 
and fanned into flame the desire to give her a 
lesson which would last her the rest of her 
life. Moment by moment a sombre sensual 
excitement gathered force in him. As he 
passed through the kitchen he noticed a pair 
of reins which the coachman had left behind. 
He took them down from the hook where they 
were hanging, and threw them into the pas¬ 
sage behind the door. 

Anisya, the cook, saw him, but made no 
remark. 

Klim Ivanovich went into the living room 
like a thunder cloud, and sat by the window 
waiting for his supper, looking out at the 
dreary square. The Military Band was play- 
[102] 




THE SAVAGE 


ing in the public gardens, and in the distance 
the music sounded marvellously lovely and 
soothing, hut Klim Ivanovich paid no heed to 
it. He decided to settle accounts with his wife 
immediately after supper and the idea cafened 
him somewhat. 

Soon after Mother Anna came home and 
it was obvious that she had been to evening 
Mass for her clothes smelled of candles and 
incense. As she went down the passage the 
old woman saw the reins on the floor and her 
face took on a queer bestial expression. 

They sat at table and Klim Ivanovich ate 
heavily, but with no sign of haste. His mind 
was made up and there was no hurry now. 
He never thought for a moment that Glafira 
might run away or hide herself. 

After he had finished eating he pushed his 
plate back, wiped his moustache, stretched 
himself, made the sign of the cross before the 
Ikon and went in to his wife. But he forgot 
to take the reins with him. Mother Anna 
snatched them up from the floor and hurried 
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after him. The old woman could no longer 
control herself and she hissed: 

“Don’t spare her! Make the viper remem¬ 
ber it to her dying day!” 

Klim Ivanovich made no answer and opened 
the bedroom door. 

Mother Anna returned to the dining room, 
poured out a cup of milk, which she liked to 
drink with sugar after supper, and she sat 
down by the table impatient and expectant. 
Her saintly face still wore its strained, greedy 
expression, and her thin parchment-like ears 
were pricked to listen to any sound that might 
come from the bedroom. 

The cook and the scullery maid who were 
washing up in the kitchen also waited and 
listened. 

“O! Auntie, I shall run away. ... I’m 
frightened, Auntie!” stuttered the girl, trem¬ 
bling with excitement and curiosity. “What 
if he beats her to death?” 

“Nonsense! He won’t kill her!” replied 
the cook tartly. 

The coachman came in. 

[ 104 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


“He’s gone in to give her a thrashing,” said 
the cook ominously. 

The coachman shook his head disapprov¬ 
ingly, hut said nothing, took his coat down 
from its hook, and went into the stable to pass 
the night there. 

The day before things had been different. 
Death and crime lurked in the air, but today 
things would go as such things must. 

“She cannot expect him to make a fuss of 
her after such goings on . . the old coach¬ 
man said to himself reassuringly. 

In the bedroom the lamp was burning on 
the chest of drawers. Glafira was still lying 
in the same position her face covered with her 
shawl. She did not move when her husband 
entered: did not even seem to hear him. But 
no sooner did Klim Ivanovich look at her than 
suddenly she threw over her shawl and bed¬ 
clothes, sprang up, and stood still, with her 
arms hanging, staring at her husband with 
enormous frightened eyes that showed blacker 
than night against the dead-white of her face. 

Klim Ivanovich gave her a quick sidelong 
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THE SAVAGE 


glance, turned round, laid the reins on the 
table, and began slowly to undress. He took 
off his coat, hung it neatly on its hook, unbut¬ 
toned his waistcoat, the more freely to move, 
took the reins in his left hand and walked up 
to his wife. She stared fixedly at him with her 
eyes dilated and looked him straight in the 
face. She was as white as a sheet. 

“Now then!” said Klim Ivanovich. 

Glafira winced and cast down her eyes. 
Klim Ivanovich gazed at her for a long time 
as though the sight of her pleased him, and the 
gleam in his eyes grew more and more evil. 

Glafira waited and she dared hardly breathe. 
Her knees gave way, and her hands trembled. 
For a long time all was silent, and then sud¬ 
denly a terrific cutting blow across her cheek 
nearly threw her down. Glafira staggered, 
but kept her feet. Again and then a third 
time Klim Ivanovich struck her—still on the 
cheek. Glafira clung to the bedpost for a mo¬ 
ment, but her strength left her, and she sank 
to the floor. Klim Ivanovich carefully trans¬ 
ferred the reins from his left hand to his right, 

[ 106 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


wound her hair methodically round his fist, 
and wrenched her away from the bed to the 
middle of the floor. 

Glafira offered no resistance and crawled 
submissively on hands and knees, straining her 
neck and shoulders so as not to fall. 

In the middle of the room he set her in front 
of him, within comfortable reach, and began 
to thrash her. 

He thrashed her fastidiously, with all his 
heart and soul, now along the back, now across 
it, choosing the most sensitive spots. After 
each stripe he dragged the woman by her hair 
back into the same position. Glafira sur¬ 
rendered completely. She did not defend her¬ 
self nor scream, but only winced while her legs 
twitched spasmodically on the floor from pain. 
She seemed even to be trying to make it easier 
for him to thrash her. Soon all the buttons 
were torn from her, and her blouse wrinkled 
up to her neck, displaying her soft plump back 
which was white and scarlet all over in swelling 
weals. Here and there were red drops of 
blood. The sight maddened Klim Ivanovich. 

[ 107 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


The blood rushed to his head. His blows now 
rained down on Glafira with a ferocious rap¬ 
idity—on her back, her legs, wherever they 
happened to fall. Glafira lost all control, and 
lashed out, trying to break loose, or at least to 
defend herself with her hands, but her resist¬ 
ance only excited him the more. An insane 
fury gripped him. He was no longer conscious 
of what he was doing, and he was beyond 
thought—in a frenzy he beat, beat, beat. 
Sometimes he dragged her by the hair and 
thrust her with his knees into the position he 
desired. For a long time nothing could be 
heard but his hot breathing, the swish of his 
blows, the dull slap as the leather struck her, 
and the movements of their heavy bodies on 
the floor. But when her blood began to splash 
the floor, Glafira wrenched herself away, tried 
to jump up, and at last gave shriek after 
shriek. Half mad, she threw herself about, 
writhed, collapsed, clutched Klim Ivanovich 
by his hands and feet, tried to catch the reins, 
even attempted to kiss her tormentor’s boots 
—but all in vain. 


[ 108 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


At last her shrieks swelled into one wild sus¬ 
tained howl that suddenly broke off short. 
Klim Ivanovich let her hair go, and with a kick 
of his knee flung her from him. Glafira fell, 
turned on her face and lay still. A feeble 
tremor ran through her whole body, and her 
legs twitched convulsively. 

Klim Ivanovich breathed hoarsely and hol¬ 
lowly like a short-winded horse. His face was 
purple and brutish. 

Without looking at his wife he stepped to 
the washstand, wiped his face and neck with 
a towel, drank a glass of water, and finally 
gained a partial control of himself. Then he 
sat on the bed and began to pull off his boots. 

Glafira was still lying with her face down, 
one hand to the back of her head, and the 
other twitching queerly up and down her body: 
it moved restlessly as though to touch one or 
other of her wounds, but it always fell back 
impotently. She was trembling all over and 
sobbing as though she were choked. 

At last Klim Ivanovich had removed his 
[ 109 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


boots and lay down undressed. For a moment 
he was silent. Then he said: 

“That’s all right. Now you’ll know better. 
Elow out the lamp, we shan’t need it.” 

Glafira made no reply. 

“D’ye hear? Come to bed.” 

Klim Ivanovich roared loudly and raised his 
fist menacingly. 

Glafira started, raised herself on her hands, 
fell back again, but at last managed to stand 
up, her whole body trembling and swaying. 
Her face was swollen, wet with tears and her 
matted hair stuck to her cheeks. Her eyes 
wandered wildly as though they could see 
nothing. 

“Get undressed!” commanded Klim Ivano¬ 
vich. 

Glafira gave him a terrified look and began 
hastily to undress, helplessly, with trembling 
fingers, tugging at the strings of her skirt. 
Klim Ivanovich looked stealthily at her and 
his face took on an expression of barbarous, 
almost voluptuous satisfaction. When she had 
stripped to her chemise, and was standing not 
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THE SAVAGE 


knowing what to do next, he threw back the 
coverlet and said: 

“Well. . . . Blow out the lamp.” 

Glafira bent over the lamp-glass, but her 
swollen lips would not obey her. The flame 
flared up, flickered, but did not go out. 

“How long will it take you?” Klim Ivano¬ 
vich growled furiously. 

She gathered all her strength together and 
blew desperately. The lamp flared up and 
then went out. The darkness seemed impene¬ 
trable, and the fumes of the oil spread a stifling 
odour. 

Klim Ivanovich lay still and waited. There 
was a long silence, then the sound of bare feet 
shuffling: a groping hand feeling for the bed 
in the dark touched his leg. Glafira clambered 
wearily across her husband, and sank into her 
place next the wall, trying to take up as little 
room as possible. Her body burned like fire, 
but she did not dare to move, hardly even 
dared to breathe. 

“Don’t creep so close to the wall, you idiot,” 

[ni] 






THE SAVAGE 


said Klim Ivanovich presently in a strange 
voice. “Come closer to me.” 

Glafira timidly slid nearer, and then once 
more lay numb against her husband’s clumsy 
body, her hot breath striking him on the shoul¬ 
der. 

A pause. 

Then Klim Ivanovich turned to his wife. 


[112] 




CHAPTER IX 


Zakhab, lived alone on the farm. 

On every side the steppe reached out, bare 
and dusty, to a dim distant horizon. But for 
a few wretched trees growing close to the house 
there was nowhere a green spot to be seen; 
only rust-coloured grass scorched by the burn¬ 
ing sun, above which the hungry hawks circled 
disconsolately, and beyond stretched unbroken 
endless space, merging in a lilac haze. There 
was a terrible drought, the soil had cracked 
on all sides from the heat, and at night blood 
red heat lightning flashed across the sky. 

Zakhar pined away from grief and loneli¬ 
ness. He had no news of what was happen¬ 
ing at home. A few workmen from the town 
had come, but he was ashamed to question 
them. As they made no comment he concluded 
that things were more or less as usual. He 
knew that Glafira was lost to him for ever, 
[ 113 ] 





THE SAVAGE 


and he had even grow accustomed to the idea, 
but the thought that Klim Ivanovich had 
beaten her to death would have been more 
bearable to him than that she should have be¬ 
come reconciled to his brother, and be living 
with him as his wife. The vision of it roused 
such a seething jealousy in Zakhar that he 
could find no rest. 

During the day his work brought him some 
forgetfulness, but in the evening, and at night 
when everything on the farm was still, and he 
was left to himself, he could find no escape 
from his torment. 

As soon as he lay down, and put out the 
lamp, the figure of Glafira would appear in 
the darkness, beautiful as sin, and more tempt¬ 
ing that ever before. His whole body would 
grow rigid with a wild craving for her, and 
crazy thoughts chased through his mind; now 
he would drink himself to death, now go into 
a monastery; and again he would feel that the 
only solution would be to kill Klim Ivanovich. 
Brooding over the murder made it almost a 
fixed idea with him, and it hardly ever left 
[ 114 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


his fevered imagination. Often in a waking 
dream as distinctly and palpably as though he 
had been there, Zakhar saw his brother’s huge 
ungainly body, a gun-barrel, flame, smoke— 
and then blood! . . . Strangely enough, 
though, he could never picture his brother’s 
face for some reason or other, and this tor¬ 
mented him most of all. There were moments 
when the urge to slay was so imperious that 
it burned through him like a flame, and the 
most trivial excuse would have been enough 
to change thought into action. This appalling 
obsession mastered him especially at night. 

Then he would jump up, half dress himself, 
and ramble feverishly about the farm until 
daybreak. The dogs, recognising their beloved 
master, would follow him wagging their tails, 
but the vast steppe was impenetrably dark, 
remote and awful, and it would seem to him 
that day could never come. 

After a week the old coachman came out 
and at last informed Zakhar of what had taken 
place since his departure. When he told how 
Klim Ivanovich had punished his wife, and 
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how she had “squealed just like a stuck pig,” 
Zakhar’s hair stood on end, while black rings 
and a web of sticky threads of light danced in 
front of his eyes. But when the coachman 
told him that Klim Ivanovich and Glafira had 
made it up and were living once more as man 
and wife, Zakhar thought how good it would 
be to kill not only his brother, but Glafira also. 

“It’s the old story. A woman’s a woman. 
The more you beat her the better she’ll be. 
Women aren’t so particular, so long as there’s 
a man. If it ain’t one, then it’s another.” 

And it seemed to Zakhar that the old man 
was about right. Klim or himself—perhaps 
it made no difference to Glafira. 

The coachman’s news tortured him intoler¬ 
ably. The words burned like hot irons into 
his soul, but he was consumed with a hyster¬ 
ical desire to hear the story repeated over and 
over. He was only interested in Glafira, but 
out of respect he asked after his mother also. 

“Well . . . and how is my mother?” 

“Your mother?” replied the coachman 
[ 116 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


gravely. “How should she be? She bears 
her cross hardly. Do you think the dishonour 
of her family is an easy burden? Folks are 
laughing at her openly. At first she was very 
angry with you, but that passed. Say what 
you like, you are her son, and a mother’s 
heart. . . . But do you know who really 
grieves for you, Zakhar Ivanovich?” The 
coachman suddenly broke off with a laugh. 
“Petenka! Would you believe it? He is 
wasting away! Mow! Mow!” The coach¬ 
man mimicked the idiot. “He goes about 
looking for you. Come to think of it, it’s 
very queer. He’s only an idiot, but he is as 
devoted to you as though he were a sensible 
human being.” 

The coachman emptied his seventh glass of 
tea, turned it upside down to show that he 
wanted no more, put a small lump of sugar on 
top of the glass and said as he got up: 

“Thank you, sir. Now it is time to go to 
bed.” 

Zakhar wanted to keep him, but dared not 
try. 


[117] 




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The coachman made the sign of the Cross 
before the Ikon hung in a corner high up under 
the ceiling, bowed once more and walked out, 
stopping at the door to turn and say: 

“You must feel lonely here all by yourself. 
I wanted to bring your gun but somehow I 
forgot. . . . I’ll bring it along next time with¬ 
out fail.” 

When he had gone Zakhar stepped into the 
yard and without his hat strode forth and van¬ 
ished into the darkness of the steppe. 

“I must kill him . . . kill him . . . kill 
him. . . 

The thought beat upon his temples. 

He did not return until morning, worn out, 
covered with mud, haggard, deathly pale. A 
farm wench on her way to milk the cows meet¬ 
ing him exclaimed: 

“My! Didn’t you go to bed at all last night, 
Zakhar Ivanovich? You’ll kill yourself if 
you go on that way!” 

Zakhar made no reply. His bearing struck 
her as strange. He looked at her as though 
[ 118 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


he were frightened and he went off swaying 
to avoid her. The girl followed him with her 
eyes, shaking her head: 

“I’d like to know what he’s been up to I” 

And this is what happened in the night. 

Glafira had already gone to bed when Klim 
Ivanovich, half undressed, shut the window 
looking out on the orchard. It was intolerably 
hot and close, but it was the immemorial habit 
of the Dikoys never to sleep with the windows 
open for fear of burglars. 

Out in the yard it was so dark that the faint 
outline of roofs and trees could hardly be 
traced against the sky. There were many 
stars, but they were dim and hazy. A dazzling 
light fell on the leaves of the willow by the 
window, and they shone strangely green in 
the darkness. A little way from the house, 
the garden path loomed white. Now and then 
a sheet of purple heat lightning suddenly 
draped the sky with a glaring brightness 
while the dense black trees stood out. Next 
moment everything had vanished. 

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“There will be a thunderstorm/’ said Klim 
Ivanovich. 

And at that very moment a deafening re¬ 
port broke the stillness of the air. The win¬ 
dow pane was shattered and the flash of a 
gunshot revealed for a second the trunks of 
the nearest trees and a circle of green grass, 
the white path, and a human shadow, which 
disappeared at once behind the bushes. 

Klim Ivanovich felt as though someone had 
struck him on the chest with all his might, and 
had vomited a scorching breath into his face. 
He had not heard the shot himself nor even 
realised what had happened. He staggered 
back a pace or two and fell heavily to the 
floor, both arms outstretched, dragging with 
him the chair on which he had hung his coat. 

As he fell he called out in a desperate voice: 

“Za. . . ” 

But in the next moment his face assumed an 
expression of tranquil indifference, his body 
heaved convulsively, he gasped and at last 
lay rigid. From his left shoulder through his 
torn shirt black blood began to ooze. 

[120] 





Glafira sprang from her bed, rushed fran¬ 
tically to the door, and gave a long penetrating 
scream, which rang through the whole house. 
People came running from all directions— 
hurrying footsteps, excited voices. A dog be¬ 
gan to bark. 






CHAPTER X 


The drama of the Dikoy household had oc¬ 
cupied the gossips of the town for a consider¬ 
able time, and the murder of Klim Ivanovich 
roused the greatest excitement. 

And yet there was no mystery about the 
murder. Public opinion decided at once unani¬ 
mously that Zakhar was the murderer. He 
was arrested next day, and put in gaol. 

All the evidence pointed to it. The double- 
barrelled gun, with one empty cartridge case, 
and fresh smoke marks in one barrel, was found 
in the grass a few paces away from the win¬ 
dow. The two workmen gave corroboration 
in their testimony that during the fight be¬ 
tween the two brothers, Zakhar had tried to 
shoot Klim Ivanovich, and when the gun was 
taken from him had threatened that he would 
kill him anyhow—“shoot him like a dog!” 

The farm wench said that on the night of 
the murder Zakhar had been away from the 
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farm, and had been somewhere a long way 
off, and had not returned until dawn, dusty, 
dirty, tired, and looking “out of his wits.” 

“He was always very nice to me, but he 
did not even say a word to me that day,” said 
the buxom wench. “As soon as I set eyes on 
him I thought—he must have murdered his 
brother.” 

The old coachman, though reluctantly, was 
made to admit that on the evening in question, 
Zakhar had plied him with questions about his 
brother and Glafira, and that all the time he 
had looked drawn and haggard. 

“I said to him, I said: ‘Spit on her, Zakhar 
Ivanovich. There are plenty of women in the 
world, and they were all created for the same 
purpose, for sure. . . .’ But, no, I suppose he 
couldn’t. He was very jealous and that was 
at the base of it all. The damned snake! 
She’s ruined the man’s life for no reason at 
all!” 

One of the most important points at the in¬ 
quest was the question: what did Klim Ivano¬ 
vich cry out before he died? 

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That cry, or, to be more accurate, that de¬ 
spairing wail had rung through the house, and 
had been heard by almost everyone. Mother 
Anna had not yet gone to bed. Anisya was 
still clearing up the dining room, the work¬ 
men were still eating their evening meal in 
the kitchen, and the servant-girl was on the 
point of lying down in the passage while the 
kitchen-maid was with her soldier sweetheart 
near the gate. They were all positive that 
Klim Ivanovich had distinctly called out: 
“Zakhar!” 

But the only eye-witness of the murder, 
Glafira, who was terribly drawn and pale in 
her black dress, insisted emphatically that 
Klim Ivanovich had uttered only one syllable: 

“Za— r 

And according to her what he meant to say 
was: 

“Za-chto?” (What for-?) 

Her supposition seemed arbitrary, and not 
at all convincing, though it was natural that 
Glafira should wish to screen her lover. It 
was well known that she did not love her hus- 
[ 124 ] 





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band, and that, after her infidelity, Klim Ivan¬ 
ovich had beaten and tortured her, while at 
the same time insisting on his marital rights. 
She had hastened to see Zakhar in person on 
the very day of his arrest on the farm. 

As for Zakhar, he was shaken to the very 
bottom of his soul, and he made only the one 
reply: 

“I did not kill my brother!” 

When asked how his gun came to be found 
near the scene of the murder, he answered that 
he did not know. 

“I left the gun at home. ... I did not have 
it with me.” 

Matfei, the coachman, remembered later that 
the gun really had been left at the house, and 
even that he had thought of taking it with him 
when he went to the farm, knowing how pas¬ 
sionately fond Zakhar was of shooting, and 
thinking that he might be lonely out there on 
the steppe. 

It was a pity he did not think of this vital 
point at the outset, and only mentioned it later 
during cross-examination, for, as he was clearly 
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in sympathy with Zakhar, no great importance 
was attached to his evidence. 

But when it came to the decisive alibi, the 
question as to where Zakhar had spent the fatal 
night, the accused only replied: 

“I was wandering about the steppe.” 

“All night?” asked the coroner. 

“All night,” repeated Zakhar dully, seeing 
that they did not believe him. 

“What were you doing?” 

“Nothing. Just walking. I was unhappy.” 

It was easy to see that Zakhar was reluctant 
to answer, as though he had no wish to defend 
himself. He was more alert and spoke with 
vehement horror, and loathing only when he 
was directly accused of killing his brother. 
He seemed to resist the idea of being thought 
guilty of so grave a crime, but at the same time 
to be utterly indifferent to his fate. 

The coroner was puzzled by the attitude of 
all those who were immediately concerned in 
the case. They all gave their evidence frankly, 
but they seemed afraid to express their per¬ 
sonal opinion and no one, not even Glafira 
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and Mother Anna, showed any particular de¬ 
sire to exculpate the accused. 

This circumstance was underlined and em¬ 
phasised later by prosecuting counsel in his 
speech to the jury. 

Strangest of all, however, was the behaviour 
of the accused’s mother. 

Immediately after the murder she had 
thrown herself frantically across her son’s 
body, and in the hearing of the assembled mul¬ 
titude had shouted loudly that Zakhar, and 
no one else, was the murderer. But in cross- 
examination, she abruptly changed her tone, 
said as little as possible, and then refused to 
answer questions altogether, taking advantage 
of her privilege as a mother. 

This also was used in support of the case 
for the prosecution. 

In short, nobody doubted that Zakhar had 
killed his brother, but public interest was not 
so much in the murder itself as in the intrigue 
between Zakhar and Glafira, and the question 
was argued whether they would come together 
now that the blood of a brother and husband 
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was between them, or would be forced apart 
for ever. The women insisted that they would 
come together. The men doubted it. 

The opinion of the women was based on the 
feeling that by the murder of the husband 
Zakhar had proved his passion, but the men 
said : 

“O! You don’t know these people! They 
consider it a deadly sin, and the man who has 
been guilty of it may take refuge in a monas¬ 
tery, but not sleep in the bed of his victim.” 

Soon to everybody’s astonishment, it was 
known that although Glafira went to the gaol 
every day, Zakhar obstinately refused to see 
her! 

“There!” said some triumphantly. “He 
does not even want to see her!” 

“All the same she goes to see him!” retorted 
others. 

“Well, she is a woman. For a woman in 
love there is no such thing as sin.” 

In fact, Glafira went to the prison every 
day. Very beautiful and pale in her mourn¬ 
ing, casting down her eyes and avoiding meet- 
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ing any stare of curiosity. In her hands be¬ 
neath her shawl, she always carried a little 
bundle of gifts for the prisoner. She would 
wait patiently by the gate, and when told that 
Zakhar did not wish to see her, she would go 
even paler, avert her eyes, and go away with¬ 
out a word, leaving her bundle with the warder. 
Later on she took her gifts away with her and 
handed them to some beggars, because Zakhar 
suddenly began to refuse to accept her pres¬ 
ents. 

In the Dikoys’ house there were now only 
the two women and the idiot, Petenka. 

The idiot! The murder had been such a 
shock to him that he seemed no longer to be a 
half-wit. At any rate there was a gleam of 
understanding in his eyes and he began to 
behave with a certain dignity as though his 
mind were in good order. 

When Klim Ivanovich was murdered he 
had been so possessed with fear that he ran 
away from the house, and hid in the long grass 
somewhere behind the barns. He was not found 
until the evening of the third day, hungry, 
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dirty and like a wild beast. He would not 
leave his hiding place, and when they tried 
to drag him out, he struggled and raved like 
a lunatic, and at last they only managed to 
induce him to come out by a trick: a pretty 
servant-girl, who had been offered half a 
rouble as a reward, was the bait to lure him 
into the open. 

When the priest came to officiate at the 
funeral, and the smell of incense floated about 
the house, and the discordant nasal chant of 
the ceremony rang out, Petenka once more ran 
away and hid himself. 

“There you are. ... A half-wit, if you 
like, but even he is afraid of death!’’ the Rev¬ 
erend Father remarked. 

Klim Ivanovich was carried along the main 
street to the cemetery, and the bells rang out 
even as they had done when he drove into the 
town with his young wife. 

And now the wife, who had caused his death, 
was sole mistress of his house. To everybody’s 
surprise Mother Anna who had had no love 
for her, and had even hated her after her infi- 
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delity, and bad even incited her son to torture 
her, suddenly made peace with her, and handed 
over to her all the duties of the household. 

On her side, too, Glafira showed the greatest 
respect and love for her mother-in-law, and 
looked after her as though she were her own 
mother. They often went to church together, 
and stood silently side by side through the serv¬ 
ice, both pale and stern in their deep mourn¬ 
ing. And of late there had crept into Gla¬ 
fira’s beautiful young face an expression that 
made it resemble a waxen Holy Image. 

After the burial of one son, and the impris¬ 
onment of the other. Mother Anna suddenly 
grew old and feeble. She gave up all house¬ 
work, only went out to church, and gave money 
for Masses and alms to the poor. At home 
she always sat in her room, and had her meals 
there. 

Glafira took charge of the house, the mill, 
and the farm, and strange to say, proved her¬ 
self to be an excellent manageress with a great 
deal of shrewd common sense, and a strong 
will. 


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At first everybody looked on her as an adul¬ 
teress, and a murderess, and refused to obey 
her. The workmen dawdled, the girls frit¬ 
tered away their time. Anisya grumbled and 
threatened to leave. Anarchy reigned in the 
house. But after a week or so Glafira, some¬ 
how, managed to take everything into her 
hands, and though she never raised her voice, 
she made everybody obey her, until at last, 
they even began to respect her. 

“That woman is a queen,” they said in the 
market place. “Of course she has sinned. But 
the devil is strong. And who is there without 
sin? We’re all human. Anyway—even if she 
has been the cause of it all, but for her the 
whole place would be stolen away bit by bit, 
and it is worth every bit of a hundred thou¬ 
sand.” 

When he heard of the catastrophe, Glafira’s 
father came to see her, either with a desire to 
help or just to sit and warm his hands at the 
fire. He had become a hopeless drunkard, and 
had lost his wife and made a living by going 
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round to fairs where he was often thrashed 
by the Peasants for swindling. Glafira re¬ 
ceived him respectfully, but firmly refused to 
let him do anything. 

“No, Papa. Leave it alone. I will do it 
myself. I am the cause of it all. I shall take 
the responsibility and keep everything safe for 
the owners.” 

The old man was hurt and went away. 

A short while before the trial Glafira went 
to the capital of the Province, and for a very 
high fee, retained the best lawyer to defend 
Zakhar. She had Mother Anna’s consent in 
doing so, but the people in the town did not 
like it, and they began to say: 

“The old woman is out of her wits and that 
hussy has got hold of everything. Give them 
time. Zakhar will be out of gaol, and they’ll 
show us what they have been driving at.” 

It was strange that although everybody was 
convinced of Zakhar’s guilt, yet in the market 
the conviction was prevalent that he would be 
acquitted. 


[ 133 ] 




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The superior people of the neighbourhood 
were baffled by such inconsistency, but the ped¬ 
lars and the storekeepers kept their thoughts 
to themselves. They looked wise, kept silence, 
and answered all questions with: 

“We shall see.” 


[ 134 ] 




CHAPTER XI 


Zakhar’s trial came on during the solemn 
days of Lent, when the air was filled with the 
smell of melting snow and the fields were 
flooded with crystal pools of water, and at 
night the moist gusty winds of spring blew, 
and all day the alternate bells rang for con¬ 
fession and repentance. 

The Court sat in the Town Hall, in the 
Farmer’s Hall, a vast room with a huge por¬ 
trait of the Czar in a massive gilt frame, and 
in front of it a long table covered with a red 
cloth with golden tassels. 

A large crowd had gathered. All the ladies 
of the district were present to follow the ab¬ 
sorbing case, with its story of love and passion, 
jealousy and betrayal. They particularly 
wanted to see the persons of the drama: they 
had heard that Zakhar was very interesting 
and Glafira a great beauty. 

[ 135 ] 


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The hall was thronged and presented a mul¬ 
ti-coloured carpet with the ladies’ dresses, mili¬ 
tary and official uniforms. In the back rows, 
stolid and solid, sat the tradespeople. There 
were no Peasants admitted for there was not 
room for all those who had wanted to get in, 
and the public were only allowed to enter with 
tickets of admission—an unheard of innovation 
which gave rise to innumerable intrigues, quar¬ 
rels and accusations of favouritism. 

The public were very animated, and there 
was a hubbub of restless and loud eager voices. 
Some were for conviction, others for acquittal, 
and heated arguments between the champions 
of the two points of view lasted until the ap¬ 
pearance of the Judges, so that even the thrill¬ 
ing moment when the Clerk drones out: “Si¬ 
lence, the Court!” passed unnoticed. As the 
Judges took their places the excitement died 
down, and the noise which had been like the 
roaring of surf slowly subsided, and the hall 
was filled with a very solemn silence. 

“Bring in the prisoner!” 

Unfortunately the public were sadly dis- 
[ 136 ] 




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appointed at the outset. Glafira did not ap¬ 
pear in court and Zakhar, though he was con¬ 
sidered a very handsome fellow in his own 
station of life, had grown very thin and sallow 
during his stay in prison. His heard was 
long and unkempt, and he looked dazed and 
sullen. He answered questions in a thick 
heavy voice as though he had just been aroused 
from sleep. 

From the benches where the ladies sat came 
a murmur of disappointment and a rustle of 
annoyance, and in the end they concentrated 
their attention on Counsel for the Defence, 
who had come from the great world, and was 
high up in government circles. There had 
been never a great man in the town since the 
memorable occasion of the invasion of Baty 
Khan. 

The lawyer was a distinguished-looking 
little gentleman, with a greyish beard, and fine 
intelligent eyes. He had a rather peculiar 
habit of continually poking his nose forward 
as though he were sniffing at everything round 
him. He spoke very convincingly, with great 
[ 137 ] 




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assurance, and a complete lack of affectation, 
and his voice was very pleasant, almost caress¬ 
ing. 

The first part of the trial, the reading of the 
indictment, the taking of oaths, the hearing of 
the witnesses, who were all people of the lower 
classes, was not interesting, and disclosed only 
what was already known to everybody. 

Taking it all round, the impression created 
by the indictment and the cross-examinations 
was such as almost to embarrass the acquittal 
party. Everything appeared so simple and ob¬ 
vious, it was so logical that Zakhar should have 
killed his brother, that the whole trial seemed 
to be reduced to an empty formality, the re¬ 
sult of which was a foregone conclusion. The 
interest of the audience was only stirred when 
counsel for either side attacked each other, 
and even this was more sparring than anything 
else. The great man’s speech had been eagerly 
awaited, but to the general astonishment the 
case for the prosecution was the more thrilling. 

Nor did the great man show any striking 
talent in cross-examination. He took the old 
[ 138 ] 




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well-trodden way of trying to discredit the 
witness by ridicule. 

Thus he asked the milkmaid from the farm, 
a saucy, sharp-tongued wench: 

“You say that you saw straight away from 
the prisoner’s bearing that he had killed his 
brother?” 

“I certainly did.” 

“O! So it was written on his face?” 

“I saw it straight away!” The girl cut him 
short brazenly. 

“Well, I must admit that you have a talent 
for reading faces,” remarked Counsel for the 
Defence. “But perhaps you will tell us what 
kind of expression a man wears when he has 
just killed his brother.” 

The girl did not understand the question, 
and made no reply. 

“Well. . . . Nevermind. But now tell us: 
You have sworn that the prisoner was in the 
habit of paying you marked attention. Of 
what nature were these attentions?” 

The girl looked at the lawyer, then glanced 
[ 139 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


sidelong at the audience and became bashful 
There was a titter of laughter. 

“You have just told us that on this particu¬ 
lar morning he neglected to pay you the usual 
attention,” Counsel went on maliciously. 
“What exactly did you expect him to do? 
Give you a kiss?” 

The audience roared. 

Counsel for the Defence questioned all the 
witnesses in this playful style, and only became 
serious when the gun was brought into court. 

The witnesses all agreed that the gun had 
been taken from the prisoner at the time of 
the fight between the two brothers, but where 
it had disappeared afterwards no one could 
tell. 

One of the workmen hazarded the opinion 
that probably Anisya, the cook, hid the gun 
in her room. 

Counsel for the Defence clutched at this, 
but in spite of all his efforts no evidence was 
forthcoming to establish the fact. Neverthe¬ 
less, it was clear to everyone that if the gun 
really had been in the attic, it would have been 
[ 140 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


impossible for Zakhar to secure it without 
being seen. The attic could only be ap¬ 
proached through the kitchen where the work¬ 
men had been at supper, or through the pas¬ 
sage where the servant-girl slept at night, and 
it would have meant passing the open door of 
Mother Anna’s room, and she had not gone to 
bed. 

After that the question as to whether Zak¬ 
har could have travelled to town and back be¬ 
fore dawn produced a long argument, and a 
discussion of minute details. 

The coachman swore that he had left Zakhar 
at nine o’clock in the evening, and the milk¬ 
maid that she had met him in the farmyard 
at four in the morning. 

“So altogether only seven hours passed.” 
Counsel for the Defence counted them up, and 
almost everybody in the audience counted on 
their fingers, or with their watches. “The dis¬ 
tance to the town is not less than twenty-six 
versts: there and back—fifty-two. That means 
that, without reckoning the time necessary for 
securing the gun and waylaying his brother, 
[ 141 ] 




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the prisoner must have run without a stop at 
eight versts an hour. That is as fast as an 
ordinary farm horse going at full gallop. But 
even a horse cannot run fifty-two versts with¬ 
out a rest.” 

This was a master stroke and it produced 
a marked stir in the audience. Even the 
Judges exchanged significant glances. Zak¬ 
har’s champions were triumphant. Only the 
Jury, of which Miloslowsky, the dealer, was 
Foreman, remained quiet and impassive. 

Unfortunately the old coachman ruined the 
whole effect: 

“It is twenty-five along the high road, which 
takes a bend, but if you walk straight across 
by the ford it does not take eighteen. I’ve 
often gone that way myself.” 

Here Counsel for the Prosecution inter¬ 
rupted to point out to the Jury that it was 
quite possible for Zakhar in his state of ex¬ 
treme nervous high tension, induced by what 
the coachman had told him of the torture in¬ 
flicted on Glafira, to have run all the way. It 
was true that the route mentioned by the coach- 

[ 142 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


man ran through ploughed fields, marshes and 
a ford—though only a shallow one—but it was 
known that Zakhar had returned terribly dirty 
and covered with mud and worn out. 

It all fitted in so well that many of the audi¬ 
ence could picture the murderer in the dark 
night wandering through fields and marshes, 
bareheaded with glaring eyes, his heart full of 
hatred, with the mark of Cain upon his brow. 
The question of the distance was buried, 
though Counsel for the Defence tried to prove, 
firstly, that the shorter distance had never been 
officially measured, and, secondly that even 
thirty-six versts could hardly be covered in so 
short a time since a horse could not run so far 
without stopping, much less a man. 

c ‘Moreover, the murder was committed at 
eleven at night, which would mean that the 
prisoner must have run from the farm to the 
town in two hours.” 

When it came to the question as to what 
were the words that Klim Ivanovich had cried 
out before he died, Counsel asked Anisya, the 

[ 143 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


cook, among other things: “Were you very 
frightened when you heard the shot?” 

“I was so frightened that it went black in 
front of my eyes. I was holding a plate in my 
hands and it fell to the floor and broke into a 
thousand pieces.” 

“What thought struck you first?” What 
did you think?” 

“I thought right off; Now Zakhar Ivanovich 
has shot his brother!” 

“You thought that at once?” 

“That very second. The idea came like a 
flash of hghtning.” 

“Even before you heard the cry?” 

“Even before I heard the cry.” 

The servant-girl, who slept in the corridor, 
was so simple that nothing could be extracted 
from her except that she had been “a-a-awfully 
frightened.” 

“Why do you believe that Klim Ivanovich 
cried out his brother’s name?” Counsel asked 
the other girl, who had been at the gate with 
her sweetheart. 

“Why, everybody said he did. That’s why.” 

[ 144 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


Counsel put the following question to the 
oldest and most intelligent of the workmen: 

“Tell me, had Klim Ivanovich any reason 
to believe there was any danger threatening 
him from his brother? Did he ever say any¬ 
thing about it?” 

The workman ransacked his memory. 

“Yes. He may have had. Up to then Klim 
Ivanovich was frightened of nothing. But 
after the fight, he always ordered me to be care¬ 
ful to close the yard gate at night. And I had 
to stay in the kitchen. It is quite possible he 
was afraid. And why not? Zakhar Ivanovich 
is a savage, hot-blooded man. They’re all the 
same in that family. In the fight he would 
certainly have killed his brother like a dog if 
we hadn’t taken his gun away from him.” 

The other workman, who was a little 
younger, remembered that about two days be¬ 
fore the murder, someone had thrown a stone 
from behind a fence at Klim Ivanovich. The 
workman knew that it was Petenka, the idiot, 
who had disliked Klim Ivanovich, because of 
his cruel treatment of him, even before, but 

[ 145 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


had begun absolutely to hate him after his 
protector, Zakhar, had been driven out and 
ignominy and torture had been inflicted on his 
beloved Glafira. But Klim Ivanovich had had 
a different opinion as to who it was. His face 
had glowered darkly with anger, and he had 
rushed into the street, and, finding nobody, 
had said gloomily: 

“That was Zakhar.” 

All evening he had been sombrely silent and 
the slightest noise had startled him. 

“Just like a harassed wolf,” said a third 
workman. 

Counsel for the Defence then succeeded in 
establishing two facts: that Klim Ivanovich 
had lived in dread of an attack from his 
brother; and secondly: that when the shot was 
fired, all those who heard it at once felt and 
thought that Zakhar had killed Klim Ivano¬ 
vich. 

The hearing of the witnesses concluded. 

After a pause the trial reached its second 
stage, the speeches for the prosecution and 
the defence. 


[ 146 ] 




CHAPTER XII 

“Genti;emen of the Jury,” Counsel for the 
Prosecution began. “We have to try a ter¬ 
rible tragic crime, a crime which, alas, is an 
almost daily event in Russian life. Our people 
are barbarous and ignorant. Russian litera¬ 
ture has idealised them, calling them a people 
of God-bearers and God-seekers! But if the 
second title is justified in so far as a primitive 
human being seeks after God, the first is ut¬ 
terly baseless either in the past or in the pres¬ 
ent of the Russian nation. The whole of Rus¬ 
sian history is one long chronicle of senseless, 
ruthless rebellions, cruel conquests, blood¬ 
thirsty princes and fanatical monks. The 
Russian people are not even religious, they 
are only superstitious. The spirit of the Chris¬ 
tian doctrine of which they think themselves 
the anointed is foreign and incomprehensible 
to them. True, you can hear them say: ‘Christ 
[ 147 ] 


THE SAVAGE 


suffered, so we, too, must bear our Cross!’ But 
the personality of Jesus Christ and the sublime 
ethics of His teaching is beyond them. They 
believe rather in the Walpurgis-night, the evil- 
eye, Ikon lamps, the Holy relics of the Saints, 
the external, idolatrous side of religion, than 
its inward sense. . . . ‘The Russian woman,’ 
a gifted Russian author has said, ‘weeps when 
she hears the words of the Gospel in church, 
but she weeps because she cannot understand 
them!’ 

“We must open our eyes before it is too late, 
before the triumph of those political creeds, 
and factions, which with cynical recklessness 
have planted their hope and faith in the mis¬ 
sion of the Common Man. We must realise 
that there is nothing unique about our people, 
that, like every other uncivilised race that has 
lived for hundreds of years in complete dark¬ 
ness—they are simply a horde of barbarians 
whose ideal has always been the freedom of 
Anarchy, freedom to rob and murder. Per¬ 
haps the time is at hand which will convince 
us all of this, when the call to open robbery 
[ 1 ^ 8 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


will lash this wild ocean into a storm and blood 
will spout to Heaven to the horror and amaze¬ 
ment of Europe and the whole civilised world. 
Yes. We are savages. Fighting, theft, rape, 
lynching and murder have always been preva¬ 
lent with us. The Green Snake* and the Red 
Cock* are always our domestic pets. We are 
still in the Prehistoric Ages, and the traces of 
our Asiatic origin have not yet faded from our 
faces and our souls. We have protruding jaw¬ 
bones and narrow eyes, and our passions are 
wild and unbridled. Only a real Russian poet 
could ever have sung with such feeling: 

Tf you love, love without thinking. 

If you threaten, make no jest of it. 

If you curse, curse with all your might. 

If you strike, strike hard.’ 

‘‘We lack measure and purpose in every¬ 
thing. Our religious feeling takes the form of 
a fanatical sectarianism. An ideal becomes a 
dogma. A political struggle degenerates into 
Red Terrorism and merciless dictatorship. 
Our literature is either a blatant prophecy 


•Alcohol and arson. 


[ 149 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


hurled in the face of the world, or a shameless 
baring of our souls and self-flagellation. Our 
songs are either wild lamentations or a savage 
dissipation. Our national heroes are Stenka 
Rawzins and Pugacheffs or emaciated Father 
Seraphims, ascending to Heaven on the Parsi¬ 
fal ladder of ‘one wafer a day.’ Our inventions 
are the knout and the chain-gang. Our hap¬ 
piness is a drunken orgy. Our love is either 
martyrdom or torture. In the breaking wave 
of our passion we swamp everything, trample 
everything in the mud: honour, family, our 
very selves. Our young girls are not virtuous, 
our wives are not faithful, not because they are 
corrupt and wicked, but because they are ruth¬ 
less and hold nothing sacred when they are 
in love. Lovelorn women fill our convents, 
while the disappointed lover puts a bullet 
through his brain or stabs his sweetheart. We 
are all loungers, spendthrifts, gamblers, 
drunkards, and the fine flower of our Intelli¬ 
gentsia yields nothing to the lowest in this 
respect. From the luxurious Yar * down to 

* Fashionable gipsy night restaurant near Moscow. 

[ 150 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


the meanest Red Inn, Russia is covered 
with maisons de plaisir. And if our village 
recruits on the way to fulfil their patriotic 
duty sometimes smash up a tavern or two, the 
students, our pride and hope, will tear down a 
brothel on their holidays, singing Gaudeamus! 
. . . And all this is not because we are brutes 
or decadent. We have intelligence and the 
capacity for great deeds and deep truth—but 
we are above all savages, and like the savage 
we lack self-control, we cannot master our pas¬ 
sions. We are vast as our steppes, chaotic as 
our primeval forests. Great forces slumber 
in us, but we do not know how to use them and 
they destroy us. How absolutely right are 
those statesmen who have declared a thousand 
times and still maintain—unmoved by the 
shrieks of the radical press—that the Russian 
people need the guidance of a firm hand. 
Disaster will overtake us when the power that 
saves us from ourselves is withdrawn and 
leaves us free to do what we like. Like chil¬ 
dren playing with fire, we shall burn our un¬ 
happy land to ashes, we shall destroy every- 
[ 151 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


thing, lose all sense of proportion, pursue un¬ 
attainable aims, sink into a world of Utopias 
and wake up at last—hungry, ruined, cold, 
beggars, having lost all that we had and our¬ 
selves with it. 

“You will ask me: Has all this anything to 
do with the case we are here to try? It has. 
Before you in the dock stands a typical son 
of vast, wild Russia, a tradesman’s son, a 
happy-go-lucky fellow like the youths in our 
legends, a regular Russian Paladin, Zakhar 
Dikoy. There are plenty of such Paladins in 
our country. They not only cock their hats 
but their brains, too, at an angle. Let them 
throw back their shoulders and swing their 
arms, and they are all passion and bluster.— 
The whole country swarms with them. They 
provide our literature, our political parties, 
and they are only waiting for the opportunity 
to show their prowess and their licence to the 
whole world. And they will show them! The 
world will quake and civilised Europe will 
shiver with terror: Zakhar Dikoy is coming! 

[ 152 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


“How symbolic this common Russian name 
is! Dikoy! The Savage! 

“Indeed we are savages. 

“Only in Russia do such types and such 
families exist. 

“I am going to tell you the story of this 
family. 

“Their grandfather kept an inn on a much 
frequented highway. He robbed passing 
travellers and without much discrimination. 
Their father had the whole district in his 
clutches. He gave much money to the church, 
but he skinned both the quick and the dead. 
The sons went the same way, the way of 
swindling, fraud and exploitation. Their for¬ 
tunes were built up of blood and mud, and 
blood spattered the whole of the second genera¬ 
tion to find expiation only in the third. 

“In the third generation the family is left 
without its head. The mother and her three 
sons are living in the house. The mother is a 
bigoted fanatic, a shrew and a miser. She 
tends the ikon-lamps, hoards money and from 
dawn to sunset, nags at her sons and her serv- 
[ 153 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


ants. Her eldest son, a torpid, narrow-minded 
usurer, an egoist and a perverse tyrant, is a 
man of dark passions and dangerous frenzies. 
The second son is a jolly devil-may-care, to 
whom life, either his own or that of a fellow 
creature, is not worth a groat. He is a spend¬ 
thrift, a drunkard, and a debauchee. The 
youngest is a worthy sprout of such a family 
tree, an idiot. Not for nothing did this father 
and mother call him a punishment sent from 
God. Their life is taken up with shady busi¬ 
ness transactions, smug religion, drinking 
bouts and the lascivious satisfaction of their 
unbridled and savagely primitive desires. 
This is life as it is lived by savages, and by 
many families, indeed, by many millions of 
people in Russia today—aimless, without ideals 
or guiding principles, and with no sense of 
responsibility. Do not object that this family 
is an exception, that they belong to a particular 
class of people, representative of the so-called 
‘dark empire.’ No, such savages are as often 
found in palaces in Petrograd, wearing court 
uniform and high sounding princely names as 

[ 154 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


among village bullies, wearing a priest’s cas¬ 
sock, or in workmen’s dwellings, wearing the 
workmen’s blouse as the emblem of a glorious 
new culture, the proletariat! . . . To remove 
any f eeling that I am generalising I could quote 
hundreds of cases of brutal murder by the 
pomaded dandies of the Nevsky-Prospekt, 
or representatives of the respected middle 
class, or a sturdy peasant, or a common un¬ 
idealised workman. For all these heroes are 
above all Russians! . . . But we are wander¬ 
ing far afield. . . . Let us return to the Dikoy 
family, 

“Some years go by. The eldest son marries, 
and a new figure appears in the household. 
The young wife is beautiful with that crude 
sensual Russian beauty, that wild beauty of 
which we hear so much in our songs: ‘her hair 
reaches down to her heels, she walks like a 
peacock, her neck is like a swan’s and her soul’ 
—well, her soul is that of a healthy brood-mare. 
She marries, not out of love, but simply be¬ 
cause she has reached the age for sensual en¬ 
joyment. The time for marriage has come— 
[ 155 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


and that is all. Alas: ninety-nine out of every 
hundred of our Russian women still marry and 
become someone’s mistress for the same rea¬ 
son. And can savages mate in any other 
way? 

“The fateful Glafira, who has bewitched her 
savage husband with her savage beauty, enters 
the household, and looks proudly round, only 
too well aware of the power of her young, 
lovely and healthy body. She enters the house¬ 
hold with no thought of duty or responsibility, 
just like her captive primeval ancestress who 
dried her tears the day after her rape and 
dumbly prepared the food in her captor’s hut, 
and so, apathetically and dully, this contempo¬ 
rary Russian savage accepts her new life. She 
gives herself to her husband whom she does 
not love because the law says so, but her sen¬ 
sual nostrils quiver when her eyes light on the 
tall handsome figure of her husband’s brother. 
Zakhar Dikoy is unmarried, he prefers a free 
life without ties, and his favourite song is: 
‘Meddlesome matchmakers, leave me alone— 
Nay: you shall never see me married. Why 
[ 156 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


should I deprive myself of freedom? Why 
give up all the girls for one?’ 

“At the sight of his alluring sister-in-law his 
savage blood catches fire. He has been 
brought up in hypocrisy: he is afraid of God, 
afraid of sin, but only with the fear of the sav¬ 
age, which operates only in the absence of 
temptation. If he wants something very much 
he can cast his God aside and laugh at sin. 
Some trivial incident sets an unrestrained ani¬ 
mal passion ablaze. Their sensual orgy lasts 
three months; their brains seethe, their reason 
is swept away in the fierce blast of their pas¬ 
sion. The whole household knows of their re¬ 
lations, but they are blind, hear nothing, think 
of nothing, but the rapture of their embraces. 
Zakhar no doubt knows that if their intrigue 
is discovered everything would go to Hell— 
home, happiness, even life itself. But that 
does not restrain him. He loves and is de¬ 
voured by his love. The world may sink for 
all he cares. And their intrigue is discovered. 

“Drunken with love they forget all caution, 
and in characteristic Russian fashion leave it 
[ 157 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


to chance to conceal them. They take such 
risks, become so reckless, that Glafira even 
decides to leave her husband during the night 
to go to her lover. Disaster becomes inevi¬ 
table. A savage bestial struggle ensues be¬ 
tween the two brothers who are now rivals. A 
real fight between two savages, two males bat¬ 
tling over a female who has been thrashed 
almost to death. Only by chance do they 
avoid a fatal outcome. Zakhar Dikoy goes or 
rather runs away from the house to the farm 
on the steppe and lives there alone, consumed 
with anger, jealousy and unsatisfied longing. 
His brother, who until now was after all the 
nearest human being in the world, becomes 
over night his deadliest enemy, for he is the 
bar to his dearest pleasure. Does his conscience 
trouble him in his solitude? Does he think of 
the shame he has brought on his family, does 
he repent of his vile and cowardly actions? No. 
He is dominated by passion and passion alone. 
The image of the beautiful Glafira haunts him. 
Day and night he thinks only of her charms. 
He tries to make himself drunk—a Russian 
[ 158 ] 






THE SAVAGE 


remedy—to seek oblivion. He even tries to 
forget his temptress in the crude embraces of 
the country wenches, but all in vain. Like an 
animal he roams about the farm, finds no rest, 
and listlessly neglects his work. We are doing 
him no wrong in saying that never for a mo¬ 
ment did it enter his mind to seek relief in a 
sincere admission of his sin and in a new pure 
life of work. No , he thinks rather of a rope 
round his neck or a monastery. 

“At last the old coachman comes from the 
town and tells him how Glafira has been 
thrashed and that her husband has forced her 
to live with him again and that she is acquies¬ 
cent. A cultivated man would have turned 
away in contempt from such a woman, a slave, 
a mere female, but a Russian thinks differ¬ 
ently. What is the soul of a woman to him? 
He thinks only of her body, and this woman’s 
body is so alluring. . . . Hoes the savage feel 
moral repulsion? It often happens that men 
in society marry prostitutes and throw their 
lives at the feet of some dancer, while in the 
lower classes it is quite usual to marry a girl 
[ 169 ] 






THE SAVAGE 


with child—or to forgive the birth of a child 
of which the husband is not the father. So 
much the better! The child will grow and 
there will be more hands to do the work. . . . 

“So Glafira has already forgotten him? She 
is living with her husband again. Will he 
spurn her now? Not at all. . . . But ven¬ 
geance must be exacted, not from the woman 
who is steeped in guilt, but from an entirely 
innocent man, because that man is her hus¬ 
band and is in the way. It is the logic of a 
savage. 

“Hardly has he got rid of the coachman than 
Zakhar Dikoy grabs his gun and bareheaded 
in a frenzied lust for blood and vengeance, 
runs across the fields in the night, through the 
forests and the marshes—to kill! . . . To 
kill! And that is all. He is incapable of think¬ 
ing what may come of it all. Savages cannot 
follow a logical train of thought. 

“He reaches the house. Everybody has re¬ 
tired to rest. He sees the light in the win¬ 
dow and his brother, half undressed, preparing 
for bed. And Glafira is in the bed. . . . He 
[ 160 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


knows that and the blood rushes to his head. 
How long did the murderer have to wait in 
front of the window for that opportunity? 
Who can tell? The witnesses state that Klim 
Ivanovich was a long time in going to bed, and 
that he paced up and down his room and twice 
went out into the passage, once to give an 
order for next day, and again to get a drink 
of water. It was a dark night and a thunder¬ 
storm was gathering. Perhaps the murderer 
lay in wait half an hour, perhaps an hour— 
but even this time of waiting did not bring 
him to his senses. No shadow of remorse 
moved in him, nor any realisation that it was 
his own brother that he was planning to shoot. 
No. His mind was clouded with passion. 
With the tenacity of a wild beast he stalked 
his prey. At last the opportunity arrived. 
The shot rings out. His brother falls—with 
hardly time enough to cry out the name of his 
murderer, whom, of course, he recognised by 
the flash of the gun shot. 

“Now, at once a sudden, terrible reaction 
sets in. 


[161] 




THE SAVAGE 


“Men of unrestrained passion always act 
blindly, thinking of nothing but the fulfilment 
of the purpose and the satisfaction of their 
rage. But as soon as their goal is reached, 
their conscience suddenly awakes and only 
then do they see the horror of what they have 
done. 

“When he heard human voices and dogs 
barking, on the disturbance of the shot, Zak¬ 
har Dikoy started off headlong; not from fear, 
not because he wanted to escape, but simply 
—away, away from the scene of the murder, 
as quickly as possible. The gruesome reality 
of his crime, now actually committed, irrev¬ 
ocable, struck his soul like a flash of light¬ 
ning. He did not even try to destroy the evi¬ 
dence: made no attempt to wipe out his foot¬ 
marks, left the most damning proof, his gun, 
behind, never troubled to restore his clothes to 
order, made no effort to reach the farm un¬ 
noticed or to think of any alibi to account for 
his absence during the night. On the farm, 
of course, nobody knew and he could easily 
have left his room next day looking like a man 
[ 162 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


who had slept peacefully during the night and 
had not the least suspicion of what had hap¬ 
pened. But Zakhar no more thought of de¬ 
nial than he did of flight. He gave himself 
away. Like an animal he crawled into his cor¬ 
ner, ate nothing all day long, refused to answer 
when spoken to. The bloody mist had passed 
away from before his eyes and the horror of 
what he had done stood constantly before him 
and his conscience gave him not a moment’s 
peace. 

“What did he care now for prison or dis¬ 
grace? Men of strong passions swing from 
one extreme to the other: first crime, then re¬ 
pentance. All Bussian murderers end their 
lives fasting and in chains. Not for nothing 
did the gifted writer, the man who knew more 
than any other of the Bussian soul, say of Bus¬ 
sian thieves and murderers: ‘And each has a 
conscience that one black day will awake . . . 

“Yes. First the senseless, reckless, head¬ 
strong gust of unbridled passion, then the Gor¬ 
dian knot of tangled lives, then crime, and in 
the end either suicide or repentance. The Bus- 
[ 163 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


sian soul knows no other way and Zakhar 
Dikoy traced the circle with remarkable pre¬ 
cision. For him, the healthy, happy de¬ 
bauchee, for whom the whole meaning of life 
lay in the pleasure to be derived from a 
woman’s charms, death is terrible: crime is 
easier. He chooses crime, but as soon as he 
has committed it, his spirit is dashed to the 
ground. Ah! now he will humbly bear the 
cross of retribution. 

“ Observe now with what an air of apathy he 
follows these proceedings which are to decide 
his fate. True, he denies his guilt, but he does 
it mechanically as a matter of form. T did 
not kill my brother!’ That is all he says. It 
is all the same to him now. ‘Let them think 
what they like. . . . Let them put me in 
prison. . . . Let them execute me. . . The 
judgment of his new-born conscience is more 
terrible to him. He is entirely wrapped up in 
himself, facing that mysterious tribunal which 
is seated in his own soul and has found him 
guilty of murder. His wavering spirit is now 
filled with a new delight, that of self-inflicted 
[ 164 1 




THE SAVAGE 


pain. Life has lost all interest for him. He 
does not even care any longer to see the woman 
for whose sake he committed murder and lost 
his soul. . . . Why, of course, if he were not 
guilty everything would! be quite different. 
The unjust accusation would have horrified 
and infuriated him. He would have done his 
utmost to prove his innocence and to regain his 
freedom, and to share it with the woman, also 
free, waiting for him with her love, the woman 
he loved so much. If the blood of the dead 
man had not risen up between them, if he had 
not this murder on his conscience—then the 
death of his brother would have been an un- 
happy accident, a misfortune, but it would 
have paved the way to happiness and love! 
Where good luck fails, misfortune sometimes 
succeeds. 

“Hut as it was he who killed his brother, the 
picture changes. Freedom holds out no prom¬ 
ised joy for him. The ghost of his murdered 
brother haunts him. How could he clasp his 
bride with bloodstained hands? No. . . . 
From now on everything is over between them. 

[ 165 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


Nay, more; if he were innocent would the at¬ 
titude of his mother and his mistress towards 
him be what it is? In the class in which he was 
born a mother is a tigress. She would have 
stuck at nothing to wrest him from the hands 
of his jailors. She would have dogged the 
officials with petitions. No earthly force could 
have made her leave the prison gates. So 
would the mother have been: so much more 
the mistress. . . . But here we find nothing 
of the sort. They are both fundamentally 
simple women, God-fearing in their way. They 
are depressed and miserable, but they know 
that he has committed a great sin and accord¬ 
ing to their understanding he must bear his 
punishment. His mother prays for him all 
day long. His mistress brings him food in 
prison, but to them he is no longer a son and 
a lover, but only a poor sinner, who needs 
consolation, and is at the mercy of the living 
God. And they bear their fate in silence.” 

Counsel for the Prosecution then sum¬ 
marised the incriminating evidence concisely, 
disposing in advance of objections that were 
[ 166 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


likely to be raised by the defence, and he con¬ 
cluded : 

“You now have before you a complete pic¬ 
ture of the crime, with the logical train of 
events. It is all plain and simple. It is writ¬ 
ten in the faces of each and every one who has 
appeared before this court; but even if we 
had not their crushing and irrefutable proofs: 
—the prisoner’s gun, his absence during the 
whole night, his mudstained clothes, evidence 
of a long rough journey, and the death-cry 
of the murdered man who called out the name 
of the murderer—even then I should still say 
—as I say now: There is the murderer, there 
he stands in the dock before you. Judge him! 
Judge in his person all the savagery, all the 
unbridled licence, all the debauchery, all the 
spiritual weakness from which Russia suffers 
—and from which Russia may soon perish I” 


[ 167] 





CHAPTER XIII 


There was a short pause after the speech 
for the prosecution during which the court¬ 
room and the surrounding passages surged 
like an angry sea. The audience split up into 
groups which broke into heated and passion¬ 
ate debate. It seemed as though the speech 
had suddenly opened all eyes, and from the 
dark depths of the seemingly banal trial had 
suddenly gushed the sinister inwardness of it 
all, of which no one until now had been aware. 

That Zakhar was the murderer was no 
longer anywhere in doubt: that seemed be¬ 
yond question. The picture painted by prose¬ 
cuting counsel was as clear as though he had 
read the souls of all involved like an open 
book. Many passages in his speech conjured 
up ideas which led far beyond the actual crime 
and deposed the question of Zakhar’s individ¬ 
ual fate to a secondary plane. Russian society 
[ 168 ] 


THE SAVAGE 


was at that time living through a very critical 
phase—due to the unhappy war and the ap¬ 
proach of the revolution—and therefore the 
prosecutor’s analysis of the Russian soul 
struck home and deeply impressed many of 
those present. Certain sentences in the speech 
were repeated with a peculiar satisfaction, as: 
“The Russian people are not religious, they 
are only superstitious” . . . “Fighting, mur¬ 
der, rape are immemorial customs” . . . 
“Russian murderers and thieves end in fasting 
and chains of repentance” . . . “Our freedom 
is anarchy, our politics either terror or merci¬ 
less dictatorship” , . . Above all the observa¬ 
tion: “Perhaps the time is near when an open 
call to general plunder will lash into a storm 
that wild ocean, the Russian people.” 

“Yes, my dear, Europe will yet see won¬ 
ders. . . . Europe will be aghast!” 

“Yes! Our freedom is anarchy, our creeds 
are fanaticism, our revolution means bombs, 
terrorism and merciless dictatorship,” words 
like these were echoed among the audience. 
“Look out, some day these savages will show 
[ 169 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


you what they are. Freedom? Ridiculous! 
Can freedom exist in a country ninety-nine 
per cent, of whose population consists of Zak¬ 
hars and Glafiras? Yes. We are drifting to 
anarchy. That is as clear as daylight.” 

There were some, mostly raw boys from the 
college, headed by the teacher of Russian, a 
Social Democrat and a Bolshevik, who were 
furious with the Prosecuting Counsel, and 
called him “an agent of the Black Hundred,” 
because he had praised “certain statesmen” and 
identified the savage Zakhar with “our great 
Russian people” in general and in particular 
with “our remarkable proletariat. . . .!” 

“. . . I’m not arguing. As far as the lower 
middle class are concerned, he is right. They 
are visibly rotting away. But the proletar¬ 
iat. . . . !” 

“. . . Mark that he alluded to Yousoupoff 
. . . hinted at village bullies. . . . But when 
he came to the proletariat he had to stop! The 
proletariat made him stop! Ha! Ha!” 

On the whole, however, the speech made a 
great impression and very few were left to 
[ 170 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


take any interest in what the defence might 
have to say in Zakhar’s favour. There was 
no doubt that he would be condemned. 

Counsel for the Defence, Dukhovetzsky, 
the famous barrister, seemed to feel how 
opinion was running, for his nostrils twitched 
more continuously than ever. Nevertheless, 
he began his speech with great self-assurance 
and a certain note of irony. 

“Gentlemen of the Jury: We have heard a 
brilliant speech, a speech which spread far 
beyond the frame of this trial and has sprinkled 
a wave of dust over almost the whole map of 
our Empire. As it ranged over so many recent 
events, hopes and fears, that speech must have 
touched many hearts. Though more than one 
objection could be raised against his frequently 
far-fetched generalisations in his portrait of the 
Russian Soul, yet one must compliment my 
distinguished adversary on his courage and the 
vigour of his psychological analysis. I do not 
propose to dispute that side of his argument, 
not because I am impressed with its accu¬ 
racy, but because we are not a meeting of a 
[ 171 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


philosophical society. We are in a Court of 
Justice and I am not a rhetorician, but merely 
Counsel for the Defence: my duty bids me 
first and last to bear in mind the fate of my 
client who awaits your judgment. You really 
cannot make him responsible for all our na¬ 
tional failings and punish him as a symbolic 
person. We are here to judge and only to 
judge, and I cannot spare Counsel for the 
Prosecution the serious rebuke that his ora¬ 
torical gifts have drawn our attention away 
from a living, suffering soul. We cannot solve 
world-problems: we are not called upon to 
decide great historical questions. The one 
and only issue which stands before us clearly, 
simply and unquestionably is: Did Zakhar 
Dikoy kill his brother or did he not? And in¬ 
stead of that we have been told about the Rus¬ 
sian Soul and Europe and Asia, about anarchy 
and chains of repentance, and other, no doubt, 
very interesting matters as to which there is 
only the one rather vital complaint, that they 
have only the very flimsiest connection with 
this trial.” 


[ 172 ] 



THE SAVAGE 


Many of the audience laughed, and Counsel, 
satisfied by the impression he had made in re¬ 
leasing the general tension, went on: 

“And so I shall abstain from all general 
arguments and come straight to the root of 
the matter: Is Zakhar Dikoy the murderer 
or is he not? I believe, I am convinced and I 
hope to prove, that he is not! What proof of 
his guilt has been forthcoming? The so-called 
proofs are many and can be divided into two 
categories: circumstantial evidence, and psy¬ 
chological hypotheses. 

“As for the evidence, it is as follows: the 
gun, the absence of the prisoner during the 
night, his muddy clothes, the threat—‘I’ll shoot 
you like a dog , 5 and lastly, the victim’s death 
cry, which, it has been contended, was the 
name of the murderer. This evidence is gravely 
compromising, but only in conjunction with 
the preconceived and unshakable idea that 
only the accused and no other could have been 
the murderer. It is strange that not once 
during the whole trial or even during the 
preliminary examination was the question 
[ 173 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


raised: Might not someone else have killed 
Klim Ivanovich Dikoy? No, the prisoner 
was declared guilty at the outset and 
every investigation, every excursion into 
the realms of psychology, took this sup¬ 
position as their starting point: Zakhar Dikoy 
is the murderer! Of course, if that is so, then 
everything, the gun, his absence during the 
night, the victim’s cry and all the items of 
evidence fit together like the slices of a melon. 
But suppose for a moment that in spite of all 
this so-called irrefutable circumstantial evi¬ 
dence it was not Zakhar who killed Klim 
Ivanovich Dikoy? Then all these details must 
be derived from another explanation. Is it 
really true that no one but Zakhar could have 
been the murderer? Think of the hard char¬ 
acter of the dead man; think of his whole life, 
based entirely on fraud, swindling, exploita¬ 
tion ; think of the many he has hurt; the more 
he has ruined; and how often he must have 
treated his employees harshly, cruelly and 
mercilessly. I am not far from the truth when 
I say that a man who was hated even by his 
[ 174 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


idiot brother must have been not exactly loved 
by many others. In that respect that murder 
as an act of retribution is a commonplace 
event in Russian life, my learned colleague is 
absolutely right. We have not yet reached 
the stage of an organised struggle with an ex¬ 
ploiting class, and in that conflict our custo¬ 
mary weapon is lynch law. 

“Were I, as Counsel of the Prosecution has 
done, to indulge in a divagation, I could point 
to the fact that even our political parties ap¬ 
peal to mob-rule. Therefore let us not pre¬ 
judge the question of who killed Klim Ivano¬ 
vich. We are here to find out who did. 

“Let us first consider the seriously incrimi¬ 
nating evidence which points to the prisoner’s 
guilt. The most important item is the gun, 
but no attempt has been made to trace the 
whereabouts of the gun prior to the murder. 
Counsel for the Prosecution has definitely and 
fairly refused to attach any belief to the state¬ 
ment of the workman who said that the gun 
was hidden in her room by Anisya, the cook; 
nor does he accept the testimony of the coach- 
[ 175 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


man who emphatically stated that he meant to 
take the gun out to the farm but unfortunately 
forgot to do so. Now, if the gun was in 
Anisya’s attic it is plainly impossible for Zak¬ 
har to have secured it without being seen by 
the servant-girl, or his mother, or the three 
workmen in the kitchen, or the murdered man 
himself who several times walked along the 
passage leading to the attic. Nor is that all. 
The gun was taken from the prisoner during 
his fight with his brother, when he was forcibly 
dragged to his own room and locked in. Could 
he possibly at such a moment have watched and 
seen where the gun was being concealed? Of 
course not. He was not even thinking of the 
gun. And it follows that not only would he 
have had to steal the gun, but he would have 
been forced to look for it all through the house 
without being seen by a whole crowd of people. 
Which is absurd. ... It has not been ex¬ 
plained how the gun was found—but let us 
leave the gun for a moment. 

“I pass on to another point. Zakhar Dikoy 
says that he wandered about the steppe all 
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night, driven to despair by the coachman’s 
story of the torture and betrayal of his mis¬ 
tress. The prosecution refuses to believe him 
—but picture to yourselves, Gentlemen of the 
Jury, how that story must have affected him. 
Remember that Zakhar Dikoy was passion¬ 
ately in love with this woman who was beaten 
by her husband with leather reins until she 
shrieked so that her voice was heard ringing 
through the courtyard—‘like a stuck pig’ as 
one of the witnesses described it. Remember 
that this brute in human form after having 
tortured and degraded his helpless wife 
forced her to satisfy the lust which her suf¬ 
ferings had aroused. What man among us 
could hear such a story without losing his men¬ 
tal balance? . . . Counsel for the Prosecution 
takes it for granted that the prisoner must im¬ 
mediately have been filled with thoughts of a 
bloody vengeance. Perhaps such thoughts 
would have been roused in the mind of a more 
cultivated and sensitive man than Zakhar 
Dikoy. Rut precisely because he was too 
primitive, savage and unenlightened, such an 
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idea would not have entered his mind. Gla¬ 
fira was his brother’s wife, his lawful wedded 
wife. By his intrigue with her he had, accord¬ 
ing to the morality of his class, committed a 
deadly sin, the deadliest of all. In his own 
eyes Glafira and he are criminals, sinners, and 
their guilt in the sight of God and before his 
Mother was very grave. In a blaze of passion 
they had broken a sacred Law, but they ac¬ 
cept the expiation of their sin as the decree of 
supreme justice. Remember how, without a 
murmur, Glafira submitted to her torture, re¬ 
member that no one came to her help when her 
shrieks rang through the house, remember that 
her own mother-in-law with her own hands 
gave Klim Ivanovich the reins he had forgotten 
—all because they all agreed that when a 
woman forgets her wifely duties and dis¬ 
honours her husband she must bear the pun¬ 
ishment! . . . And Zakhar Dikoy is flesh of 
the flesh, soul of the soul of this submerged 
class. Gripped by a sensual passion he sins 
with his brother’s wife, but the sin once com¬ 
mitted, consciousness of his guilt against his 
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brother neyer leaves him. True, he loved this 
woman, true, he longed for her when they were 
parted, true, the tale of her sufferings and be¬ 
trayal tore at his heart, but not for a moment 
did he doubt his brother’s right as a dishonoured 
and outraged husband, to act as he did. . . . 
It may safely be said that in his brother’s place 
Zakhar would have acted precisely or almost 
precisely as Klim Ivanovich did. In his heart 
he was already reconciled to the loss of his 
mistress. What could he do? It was his fate, 
his bitter destiny! When he heard that Gla¬ 
fira was living with her husband again, prob¬ 
ably he felt a purely physical jealousy, and a 
cruel anguish, but he realised definitely that it 
was inevitable: she was Klim’s wife, and his 
wife she would remain. The outlet of divorce 
and separation would not come into considera¬ 
tion, for to that class these are an even worse 
disgrace than an illicit relationship. ... Is it 
not written: ‘Whom God hath joined let no one 
put asunder?’ . . . And so in agony, dogged 
by jealousy and grief, he roams across the 
steppe like a lost soul all through the night, 
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trying to deaden the travail in his soul through 
physical exhaustion. It may well be that he 
flung himself on the ground, and wallowed in 
the mire in a torpor of despair. ... In the 
morning he returns home, worn out and dirty. 
The violent pain has become a dull ache. He 
hides himself in a corner and neither eats nor 
drinks and speaks to no one. Such a spiritual 
collapse after a deep emotional crisis is 
familiar to us all. And what reply could he 
have given to the direct question: ‘What were 
you doing all night on the steppe?’ No other 
than the one he gave: T was walking about’ 
. . . Did he know himself what he was doing? 

“I shall not waste much time over Zakhar’s 
threat to kill his brother on the fatal night of 
the discovery of Glafira’s guilt. It is only 
too clear that this was merely the threat of a 
man swept away by the fighting spirit in the 
middle of a struggle. He was blind with rage 
when he ran to fetch his gun, beyond himself 
when he shouted: Til shoot you like a dog!’ 
still in that condition when they wrenched the 
gun away from him and dragged him away. 

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. . . Believe me, if every such threat were car¬ 
ried out there would be very few people alive 
today in our vast Russian Empire. 

“As for the victim’s death cry, permit me to 
observe that this proves absolutely nothing, 
chiefly because we do not know what the de¬ 
ceased was trying to say. Granted for a mo¬ 
ment that we attach no credence to the evi¬ 
dence of the one eye-witness, Glafira, because 
it would be only natural for her to try to 
exonerate her lover—though I must remark in 
passing that this is directly in contradiction of 
the prosecutor’s statement that both she and 
her mother-in-law are simple God-fearing 
women who humbly submit to divine retribu¬ 
tion. Where is her ‘humility,’ if she lies and 
prevaricates? 

“But this is not the crux of the matter. The 
other witnesses all maintain that the deceased 
distinctly shouted the name of his brother. 
But you must recollect that Klim Ivanovich 
collapsed almost simultaneously with the gun 
shot and that he uttered the cry with his last 
breath. Could that cry have been so clear and 
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articulate that it could have been understood 
even at a great distance? Of course not. It 
was the last roar of a dying brute. 

“But let us suppose that the witnesses really 
were able to distinguish Zakhar’s name in the 
death cry. ... Do you realise that as soon 
as they heard the shot they were all as one 
man seized by the thought of Zakhar, a fact 
easily accounted for when we take into con¬ 
sideration the atmosphere of the household 
shortly before the murder. Is it not then per¬ 
fectly logical that in the wild cry of the dying 
man they should believe they heard the name 
that was on the tip of everyone’s tongue? You 
must admit that this is highly probable. 

“However, I am willing to concede even 
more! Let us suppose that the deceased ac¬ 
tually did cry out his brother’s name! What 
would that prove? That he had recognised 
him by the flash of the gun? Absurd! That is 
out of the question because the flash of a gun 
fired at short range blinds the victim, while the 
murderer who is behind the flash is lost in 
darkness. No, Klim Ivanovich could never 
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have recognised his brother, neither as the gun 
was fired, nor later, when the flash was lost in 
the darkness of the night. You will remember 
that he lived in continual fear of a fresh attack 
from his brother. You know that. We have 
succeeded in establishing that once when some¬ 
one threw a stone at Klim Ivanovich he im¬ 
mediately shouted ‘That was Zakhar/ and was 
obstinately convinced that it was so, though 
Zakhar at the time was a long way off on the 
farm, and though all the facts at our disposal 
tell us that it was the idiot, Petenka, who threw 
the stone. Klim Ivanovich was undoubtedly 
the victim of persecution mania. It is there¬ 
fore easy to understand that in his last con¬ 
scious moment, mortally wounded, he should 
think of his brother and cry out his name. 

“And so we see that once we set aside the 
preconceived notion that it was Zakhar who 
killed his brother all the circumstantial evi¬ 
dence and all the psychological hypotheses of 
the prosecution do not stand the test. I shall 
have a few words to say about psychology 
later on. 


[183] 




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“Meanwhile, let us go back and try to 
shed some light on a matter which in spite of 
the evidence has receded into the background, 
owing to the obstinate refusal of the prosecu¬ 
tion to take an unprejudiced view and to ad¬ 
mit the possibility of the prisoner’s innocence. 

“I wish once more most emphatically to insist 
on the absolute impossibility of Zakhar Dikoy’s 
having been at the scene of the crime twenty 
versts away by eleven o’clock, after he had 
parted with the coachman on the farm at nine 
o’clock, to waylay and murder his brother. 
Even if the distance be reduced—let us say 
that by crossing ploughed fields and marshes 
and crossing the ford the distance could be 
cut down to eighteen versts—do not forget that 
this is one of those famous Russian short cuts 
celebrated in the spying: ‘An old woman once 
measured it with a pair of crutches.’ 

“ ‘It can hardly be eighteen versts,’ says the 
coachman. But I myself, and competent ex¬ 
perts whom I called in, have tried the shorter 
route and I can definitely say in the first place 
it is not eighteen but almost twenty versts, and 

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secondly that the going is very difficult through 
ploughed lands and dykes and that no horse, 
let alone a human being, could cover it with¬ 
out a stop. Even if Zakhar Dikoy could have 
accomplished the feat owing to his high nerv¬ 
ous tension he would most surely have col¬ 
lapsed near the house from a heart-attack and 
it would have been impossible for him to man¬ 
age the return journey to the farm. I insist 
upon this fact. I lay the greatest stress upon 
it and I demand that the Judges, of their 
conscience, shall not forget it for a moment. 
If they do this I am certain that they will 
acquit Zakhar of his brother’s murder because 
it is physically impossible for him to have com¬ 
mitted it in given circumstances. 

“As for Zakhar’s attitude and that of those 
near and dear to him after the murder and his 
own imprisonment, it seems to me that Coun¬ 
sel for the Prosecution was very near the truth 
when he ascribed their passiveness to a humble 
resignation in face of the well-deserved casti¬ 
gation of Fate. Naturally in the eyes of the 
world and in his own, Zakhar Dikoy had com- 
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mitted a grievous sin and deserved punish¬ 
ment. 

“But that sin is not murder: it is the 
deadly sin of love for his brother’s wife, the 
sin of incest. Counsel for the Prosecution is 
a man of culture, he thinks and judges differ¬ 
ently from the class in which the crime took 
place! To him, as to every sophisticated mind, 
only murder is a really serious crime while 
an illicit relationship with the wife of a man’s 
own brother is a minor offence, especially if the 
wife is beautiful. Such relationships are of 
frequent occurrence in “educated circles” and 
the feelings they arouse there are hardly more 
than a certain embarrassment. We have pro¬ 
gressed too far beyond the primitive standards 
of morality of the submerged class from which 
the hero and heroine of such a trial as this have 
sprung. We can hardly understand how such 
terrible consequences would follow from such 
a comparative trifle as a romance of passion, 
even though it arose from a brother’s wife. 

“But their class think differently, and it is 
difficult to say which crime is the more deadly 
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in their eyes—murder or incest. Moreover they 
consider all unhappiness as punishment from 
God. What an awful impression the violent 
death of Klim Ivanovich must have made on 
those who felt they had wronged him! They 
robbed him of wife and honour and he died 
shamed and maimed. Counsel for the Prosecu¬ 
tion is right; with the Russians retribution al¬ 
ways follows close upon the crime. Zakhar 
Dikoy was guilty of a grievous sin. God pun¬ 
ished his whole family for it, and they sub¬ 
mitted to the unfathomable will of the Al¬ 
mighty. Zakhar decided to expiate his sin 
by the sacrifice of love, joy and happiness, and 
his mother and his mistress humbly accept his 
decision. Here lies the explanation of that 
strange passiveness both on the part of the 
prisoner and of his relatives. It is not indif¬ 
ference but submission: ‘God’s will be done!’ 

“The Prosecution says Zakhar killed his 
brother because he could not but kill him. I 
tell you that he did not kill him, because he 
could not. He might, perhaps, have been ca¬ 
pable of killing a stranger, but under no cir- 
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cumstances—except some momentary uncon¬ 
trollable fury—could he have plotted the mur¬ 
der of his brother against whom he had already 
committed so heinous a sin. INTo, the man who 
stands before you is not a murderer, but an 
unhappy blinded human being, lost in the 
mazes of his guilty passion. He is the victim 
of a fatal combination of circumstances. 

“You ask me then: Who killed Klim 
Dikoy? 

“That I do not know. I have not evidence 
enough in my possession to point to anyone 
and say: That is the man—for the inquest 
was conducted with only one end in view. But 
let me remind you that the threat uttered by 
Zakhar in the heart of the struggle—Til 
shoot you like a dog!’ was heard by many 
people. Who knows whether someone did 
not take advantage of that to settle an old 
score with Klim Ivanovich and throw the 
blame on someone else? Who knows whether 
the murderer was not living in the house, or 
indeed is not one of the very witnesses who 
have given evidence before you today? If 
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the murderer were living in the house it makes 
the appearance of the gun intelligible. And 
all the other evidence is merely circumstantial. 
However, these are only suppositions, but it 
is no mere supposition that we are here to try 
an innocent man because not a single proof 
has been produced by the prosecution which 
can stand the test of examination. 

“Perhaps I have not succeeded in convincing 
you, but—no longer as Counsel for the De¬ 
fence—as a human being I appeal finally to 
your human feelings. Think of the horrible 
irreparable consequences of a judicial error, 
that can never be undone.” 

Counsel for the Defence concluded his 
speech. It cannot be said that his arguments 
convinced anyone of Zakhar’s innocence—the 
general opinion that he was the murderer was 
so deeply rooted—, but no doubt he had given 
many food for thought. A very strong im¬ 
pression had been created when Zakhar had 
burst into tears on the words about the ‘un¬ 
happy, misguided man.’ 

After the meandering and rather tame sum- 
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mary of the judge, which covered the usual 
ground, ‘that the jurors must act according to 
their conscience and must not be influenced by 
the eloquence of learned counsel’ the Jury, 
which consisted mostly of tradespeople, ad¬ 
journed to their room. 

There was an air of indecision about the 
courtroom during the jury’s deliberations 
which lasted more than an hour. Some re¬ 
gretted that they had allowed themselves to be 
carried away by the speech of Counsel for the 
Prosecution. The public spoke only in whis¬ 
pers and cast impatient glances at the door 
of the jury room. Zakhar sat motionless with 
bowed head. 

Suddenly the bell sounded sharply from the 
jury room. Everybody started. The door 
opened, and the long black procession of the 
jurors filed into court. . . . At the head, 
Miloslowsky, a grey-bearded tradesman, well- 
known and respected in the town, walked for¬ 
ward with a sheet of paper in his hand. It 
was noticed that his face revealed a deep pity 
and much suppressed emotion, which he tried 
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in vain to conceal. Many people thought that 
as he spoke the fatal word: 

“Guilty” 

the old man cast a humid glance at Zakhar 
and turned away with tears in his eyes. 


[191] 




CHAPTER XIV 


Dukhovetzsky, the barrister, had reserved 
rooms in the only decent hotel in the town. It 
was situated in the market place and was called 
the Red House because it was built of rough 
red bricks. He occupied the “best room” in 
the Hotel, but even that in spite of that de¬ 
scription was rather dirty and suspiciously 
redolent of vermin. 

The trial ended very late and much against 
his will Dukhovetzsky had to stay the night 
as there was no train until noon the next day. 
He was very excited and in a bad mood that 
seemed to penetrate to the very depths of his 
soul. He had never for a moment doubted 
Zakhar’s innocence and the unexpected ver¬ 
dict had dumbfounded him. After ordering 
a samovar, Dukhovetzsky walked up and down 
his room for a long time, twitching his nose 
and shrugging his shoulders. Now and then 
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he stepped to the window and remained look¬ 
ing out at the square as though he were seek¬ 
ing an answer to his questions in its dreary 
impenetrable darkness. 

The little town lay buried in the dense black¬ 
ness of the night. Pools of water here and 
there stirred by the wind shimmered in the 
light of the solitary lamp of the police-station 
over the way. 

The figures of the day’s trial came to life 
again as they passed through the lawyer’s 
mind—the jury with old Miloskowsky, with 
his grey beard, as foreman, the witnesses, Gla¬ 
fira and the Mother and last of all the pris¬ 
oner himself. What strange, mysterious people 
they were! An ill-defined feeling took pos¬ 
session of the lawyer, and his fine nervous nos¬ 
trils seemed to have scented what his brain 
could not grasp. Dukhovetzsky was ill at 
ease. 

A deathlike silence filled the house. His 
room smelt of must, dirt and vermin. Some¬ 
body knocked softly at the door. 

“Come in!” cried Dukhovetzsky. 

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The door opened slowly and a tall woman 
entered with a black shawl round her head—a 
face strangely pallid and white like that of a 
Holy Image. Behind her loomed another grey 
formless figure like a shadow. Dukhovetzsky 
recognised the prisoner’s mother, and was as 
abashed as though he alone were responsible 
for the outcome of the trial. 

“Ah! It’s you!” he said awkwardly. 

“Yes, little father. It is I,” answered the 
old woman gravely with a dignified obeisance. 

The grey shadow behind the door bowed 
also but not at all with dignity, rather with a 
foolish alacrity. It was Petenka, the idiot, 
whom Dukhovetzsky had seen once before. 

“We have come to see you, little father .. 
the old woman continued. 

“Certainly, certainly,” Dukhovetzsky mut¬ 
tered confusedly. “Please take a seat? . . . 
A glass of tea?” 

“Many thanks,” the old woman interrupted. 
“We couldn’t think of tea just now. But I’ll 
sit down. My feet ache.” 

She sat down, straight as a ramrod, hiding 

[ 194 ] 




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her hands under her shawl, and stared at the 
lawyer with her sad heavy eyes that were still 
red from recent tears. 

Dukhovetzsky sat down also. 

A silence. 

“My son has been condemned,” said the old 
woman and her voice quavered. 

“Yes,” murmured Dukhovetzsky. “It took 
me by surprise. There must have been some 
terrible mistake.” 

Suddenly he noticed that something was dis¬ 
turbing him. The dim eyes of the idiot stand¬ 
ing behind his mother were rivetted on him in 
a steady, searching gaze. Dukhovetzsky was 
forced now and then to look in the direction, 
but the idiot did not even blink. 

“Don’t give up hope,” the lawyer went on. 
“The case is not lost yet. There are many 
reasons for an appeal. Another jury may 
give a different verdict. I am convinced my¬ 
self, from the very depths of my soul, of your 
son’s innocence. If you wish I will enter the 
petition for you or. . . .” Dukhovetzsky sud¬ 
denly flustered, “or perhaps you would like 

[ 195 ] 



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to put the case in the hands of another 
lawyer?” 

The old woman shook her head. 

“No, little father. We don’t want another 
lawyer. We are quite satisfied with you. May 
the Lord give you good health. You did 
everything you could. There were many 
people who were moved to tears in the court, 
I’m told.” 

The old woman raised her hand and dried 
her eyes with her shawl. 

“No! No! It was the Lord’s will. The 
matter is closed. We don’t want any petition. 
May God be with him.” 

“What do you mean? ... You refuse to 
appeal?” asked Dukhovetzsky in amazement. 

“Yes, little father. We refuse.” The old 
woman moved her hands a little under her 
shawl and her head dropped. 

Dukhovetzsky was amazed. He had ex¬ 
pected just the opposite, tears and fawning 
entreaties to save the prisoner. 

“But the verdict can be upset,” he muttered. 
“I am sure. . . 


[ 196 ] 




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“No. Let it be,” replied the old woman 
still looking down as though she were con¬ 
cealing something. “Let it be. It is the 
Lord’s will,” she repeated and now she raised 
her eyes to meet his. 

Dukhovetzsky spread his hands wide. 

“It means imprisonment and hard labour! 
Is that what you want? Do you understand 
that? As you please, of course! . . . But the 
prisoner himself? It is my duty.” 

“He refuses, too, little father! I have spoken 
to my son. The authorities—God bless them 
—gave me leave. I have just come from the 
prison. He refuses to appeal, little father. 
He also refuses.” 

Dukhovetzsky let his arms fall helplessly 
and did not know how to go on. A painful 
silence ensued. 

The old woman wondered for a little while, 
munched with her thin sunken lips, sighed 
and got up to go. Dukhovetzsky rose with 
alacrity. 

“So you definitely refuse to appeal? 
Strange. Very strange.” 

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“That is our decision, little father! There 
is nothing more to be done. Thank you, thank 
you for all your trouble and may the Lord 
grant you every blessing. Don’t doubt my 
word. It is God’s holy truth. We are very 
well satisfied with what you did, and we shall 
remember it for ever! . . . Bow, Petenka!” 
she added suddenly with a new harsh note in 
her voice, stepping quickly aside not to hide 
the idiot who ducked behind her chair. 

The idiot looked fearfully away from his 
Mother and at the lawyer and began to bob 
with a respectful awkwardness, staring dum¬ 
bly and blankly like an animal. 

“Kiss his hands, you fool,” said the old 
woman in the same severe tone. 

“What do you mean? Why?” stammered 
Dukhovetzsky confusedly. 

“Of course. . . . And now let me beg you 
to excuse us. Please don’t think badly of us 
either . . .” said the old woman, and she pro¬ 
duced a large package from under her shawl 
and laid it on the table next the samovar. 
“May God bless you.” 

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“Goodbye/’ murmured Dukhovetzsky. 

“Well, go along,” the old woman ordered, 
and she made a low bow and left the room, 
making her son precede her through the door. 

The door was shut and Dukhovetzsky was 
left alone thoroughly nonplussed. 

“I can’t make head or tail of it,” he said 
aloud with some vexation. 

It was clear to him that a spiritual mystery 
of some sort was at the bottom of it all, but 
exactly what he could not make out. 

“Can it really be that they have so burn¬ 
ing a thirst for expiation? But he is not 
guilty. . . . The devil knows what it is all 
about. Strange, strange people!” 

He spent a restless night. The vermin 
bothered him and he was haunted unceasingly 
by the idiot’s dumb blank animal expression. 

Next morning while the carriage that was 
to take him to the station was being harnessed, 
Dukhovetzsky took a stroll through the town. 
He loved these little provincial towns with 
their grass-grown winding alleys, their empty 
squares, their little low houses and their gaily 
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coloured churches. He himself had been born 
and bred in just such a town. But that was 
long ago. 

The market place was a sheet of wet glisten¬ 
ing mire. Wrapped in their shawls, with 
muddy skirts and boots, the women squatted 
on the ground near the stalls waiting for cus¬ 
tomers for their bread, sunflower seeds and 
dried fish. Two or three farm-carts with 
shafts upturned stood in the middle of the 
square, while the scraggy, pot-bellied horses 
mournfully chewed the hay which had been 
carelessly thrown down in the mud near the 
wheels of the waggons. The little town seemed 
strangely deserted and dreary. Behind the 
lace-curtained windows with their flower-pots 
not a single living face was to be seen, as 
though all the people were hiding from him— 
Dukhovetzsky. But every now and then, 
daintily stepping along the wooden pavements 
in his polished boots, an officer would swagger 
by, or an overdressed young woman would 
strut along. Then he met two schoolgirls in 
brown with neat blue aprons. Then came a 
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portly, imposing tradesman’s wife with a shin¬ 
ing silk shawl round her shoulders. 

Dukhovetzsky suddenly remembered that 
his wife had asked him to bring her such a 
shawl. They had become the fashion among 
society women. Dukhovetzsky smiled ten¬ 
derly as he thought of his charming young wife 
to whom he had been married only three years. 

“I must buy one,” he decided, pleasantly 
conscious of the large fee in his pocket. He 
accosted the tradesman’s wife and politely 
raising his hat, asked: 

“Would you be kind enough to tell me where 
I could buy a shawl like yours?” 

The tradesman’s wife had been at the trial 
the day before and she recognised the lawyer 
at once. She blushed with pleasure in her sur¬ 
prise, stopped and in her sing-song dialect be¬ 
gan shyly to explain: 

“Cross the square. . . . To the left of the 
Shopa—and you will come to Kusma Milos- 
lowsky’s shop. He keeps them.” 

“Thank you,” said Dukhovetzsky, raising 
his hat once more, and he went in the direction 
[ 201 ] 




THE SAVAGE 


she had pointed out, rather tickled by the am¬ 
biguous word Shopa. 

The tradesman’s wife, however, stood still 
where he had left her, as though reluctant to 
part with so pleasant a subject for tittle-tattle 
and she called after him: 

“Straight down that street. Straight down. 
Don’t forget:—Miloslowsky.” 

Dukhovetzsky smiled and bowed repeatedly, 
at the same time taking care not to flounder 
into a mudhole. 

It was dank and humid in Miloslowsky’s 
shop. Along the walls were rows of shelves 
gay with muslins, silks and satins. There was 
an all pervading smell of calico. Behind the 
counter stood a spry youngster of fifteen, 
while at the cash-desk sat the stolid, grey- 
bearded shopkeeper drinking tea boiling hot 
from a cup which he held with outstretched 
fingers. At the sight of his customer he at 
once put his cup down, stood up with great 
dignity and raised his thick woollen cap. 

[ 202 ] 




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“What can I do for you?” he asked in a 
businesslike tone. 

Dukhovetzsky told him what he wanted. 

“I have just what you require,” said the old 
man. “Show them to the gentleman, Yolodka. 
... No, not those. . . . Take them from the 
second row. You want something bright, 
don’t you?” 

“Yes, yes! The brightest you have!” 

“Do you hear, Yolodka,” the shopkeeper 
called to his apprentice and again, politely 
turning to his customer: “Aren’t you Mr. 
Dukhovetzsky?” 

“Yes,” said'the lawyer a little puzzled un¬ 
til he recognised the shopkeeper. “Quite so, 
and you were the Foreman of the Jury yester¬ 
day.” 

“That’s right!” said the old man self-con¬ 
sciously. 

While the boy was wrapping up the shawls 
which the lawyer had bought Dukhovetzsky 
began to talk to the shopkeeper: 

“Now you must admit—the affair is over 
now, but, frankly—your condemnation of the 
[ 203 ] 




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prisoner yesterday. ... You brought in the 
wrong verdict.” 

“The wrong verdict? What do you mean?” 
the old man replied. “It was absolutely the 
right verdict.” 

“But, good Heavens, he is not the mur¬ 
derer!” cried the lawyer excitedly with his 
nose twitching violently. “I am as convinced 
of that as of the fact that I am standing in 
front of you now.” 

The old man was silent for a moment. 

“Well, what of it? The truth is the truth. 
I won’t conceal anything. It was not he who 
committed the murder,” the shopkeeper sud¬ 
denly blurted out sharply and clearly, watch¬ 
ing the lawyer out of the corner of his eye. 

Dukhovetzsky was aghast: 

“Not he?” 

“Of course he did not do it. Zakhar did not 
shoot Klim Ivanovich. Petenka, the idiot, did. 
We all know that well enough.” 

Dukhovetzsky had not been prepared for 
this revelation. Although he had expressed 
his suspicion that the murderer might easily 
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have been an inmate of the house, he had not 
for a moment thought of the half-wit. 

“What do you mean? The idiot?” 

“To be sure. You have seen the idiot— 
Petenka?” 

“Yes. I saw him-” 

“Well, it was he who killed Klim Ivanovich 
Dikoy.” 

“But. . . . Look here. . . .” 

“There is nothing to be done about it. We 
knew all along, but we kept quiet about it. 
Petenka shot him. You remarked very aptly 
that the murderer might have been in the 
house. . . . Petenka was in the house.” 

Dukhovetzsky was silent for a long time, 
and he stared fixedly at the shopkeeper, who 
returned his stare with calm assurance. 

“Well,” muttered the lawyer at last. “But 

if you know it, why-? Look here, why did 

you send a man whom you knew to be innocent 
to prison?” 

“What do you mean by innocent? Whose 
was the guilt?” 

“But you said yourself-” 

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“I said that Petenka shot his brother. Pe- 
tenka did shoot him. But Zakhar was the 
cause of it all. Petenka killed his brother for 
Zakhar’s sake. He loved Zakhar very much. 
Ever since Zakhar was driven out of the house 
the idiot had been pining for him. He was 
also very sorry for Glafira. Well, he is an 
idiot and did not realise that the love of those 
two was a deadly sin. An idiot is like a saint, 
who does not understand such things. Klim 
Ivanovich was a hard hot-headed man; he had 
always bullied the idiot while the other two 
had always petted him. They would give him 
money and sweets. . . . Well, that is why the 
idiot shot Klim Ivanovich. He thought he 
could help Zakhar by doing so . . . with his 
idiotic mind, of course. . . . Well, what were 
we to do? Inform against him or what? 
Hadn’t he taken the guilt upon himself, com¬ 
mitted murder and imperiled his salvation? 
And Zakhar was the cause of it all! If he 
had not yielded to his own lust and led his 
brother’s wife into temptation nothing would 
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have happened. Is he to suffer for his crime 
or not? What do you think?” 

“What do I think? ... In spite of all that 
he is not the murderer!” 

“Eh, little father, the murderer is not al¬ 
ways the man who does the shooting! As you 
have seen, even an idiot can fire a gun. Zak¬ 
har has murdered his own soul. He has killed 
Petenka’s soul and ruined Glafira, and brought 
Klim Ivanovich to his death—and for what? 
He must expiate his sins here on earth. Per¬ 
haps God will forgive him for the sake of 
his sufferings. Let him suffer. . . . We could 
not all agree at first, but I said: ‘We’ve ar¬ 
gued enough! Write down that he is guilty. 
If he is not guilty it will help him in the next 
world.’ ” 

“A strange course of reasoning,” murmured 
Dukhovetzsky. 

“Well, we reason according to our under¬ 
standing,” replied the old man without taking 
offence. 

“But then . . . then his mother and Gla¬ 
fira knew it also?” 


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“Of course they knew it.” 

“And they kept silent.” 

“They have kept silent because they ac¬ 
knowledge the sin.” 

“Then why did they call me in?” 

“Well, that was a woman’s weakness. They 
love him. After all, one is his mother, and 
the other his mistress. They probably thought 
that if it was God’s will to set him free he 
would make us bring in a verdict of not guilty! 
•—and then it would be His will, His holy 
will!” 

“But, pardon me, as Counsel for the De¬ 
fence I am in duty bound to enter an appeal 
against this verdict.” 

“As you please, but I should not advise you 
to do so,” said the old man once more looking 
at the lawyer out of the corner of his eye. 

“You understand, I have no right to keep 
silent when I know. ...” 

The shopkeeper smiled slyly and subtly. 

“And what do you know, little father?” 

“You told me yourself. ...” 

Miloslowsky shrugged his shoulders. 

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“1 told you? I have told you nothing.’’ 

Dukhovetzsky went red in the face with 
anger. 

“Do you deny your own words?” he ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Of course I should deny them.” 

“But that is. ... You know-” 

The old man’s face took on a solemn and 
almost religious expression. He looked at the 
open door as if to make sure that no one could 
hear him, and then he said to the apprentice: 

“Volodka, go out into the street and stay 
there for a short while.” 

The boy looked at him understanding^, 
came from behind the counter and ran out. 

“Let me tell you something,” said the old 
man, “Leave things as they are! Don’t get 
mixed up in it. I know you are an educated 
man, and you educated men have your own 
ideas about these things, perhaps. But take 
my advice! I don’t wish you any harm. Keep 
your fingers out of it! You’ll do no good 
anyhow. What more can I say? I’m very 
sorry for Zakhar, of course. He is a fine good- 
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hearted fellow, a real man. But think it out 
for yourself! Suppose he were acquitted and 
set free. He can’t walk about with a millstone 
round his neck, a dead weight on his soul for 
life. His conscience would torture him to 
death. You must not forget that because of 
his sin one of his brothers died without absolu¬ 
tion, and the other has gone to perdition, and 
that he has brought everlasting shame to his 
family. Do you think he could live with such 
a sin on his conscience? Believe me when I 
tell you that he would take to drink, ruin his 
family, torture Glafira, and perhaps raise his 
own hand against himself. . . . Prison? . . . 
What of it? People do not die of it, and they 
often live all the happier for it. There is 
nothing in that, take my word for it. Let him 
suffer—let him cleanse his soul! I tell you, 
leave it alone!” 

The old man seemed to be deeply moved and 
his voice trembled. 

Dukhovetzsky was filled with consternation 
and a feeling of awe. 

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“But,” he said desperately. “I can’t. It is 
my duty.” 

The old shopkeeper made no reply but his 
face grew stern and forbidding. Dukhovet- 
zsky looked at him with an expression almost 
of entreaty. 

“Perhaps you are right from your point of 
view. But I can’t see it with your eyes.” 

“You must decide that for yourself,” mut¬ 
tered Miloslowsky gloomily. 

“But how can I willingly allow an innocent 
man to be sent to prison? You understand 
me, don’t you?” 

“We understand you,” said the shopkeeper 
reluctantly, and without looking up, “but you 
don’t seem to understand us, little father.” 

“I really don’t know,” said Dukhovetzsky, 
suddenly tired out. “After all. . . 

The old man said nothing. 

“After all, perhaps you are right.” 

For a time neither spoke. Dukhovetzsky 
felt depressed and perplexed as though he were 
guilty of something. 

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“Well,” he said at last, “goodbye. Glad to 
have met you.” 

“Begging your pardon.” 

Dukhovetzsky raised his hat and turned ir¬ 
resolutely to the door. 

“You have forgotten your parcel,” said the 
old man. 

“O, yes, of course. . . 

Dukhovetzsky came back, took his parcel 
and left the shop deeply troubled in his mind. 

The shopkeeper looked after him disapprov¬ 
ingly, went back to his desk, and reached out 
for his tea which in the meantime had grown 
cold. 

As Dukhovetzsky drove to the station, 
through the dreary wet fields, over which the 
crows flew croaking, the hard impenetrable 
countenance of the old man went with him. 
His soul was filled with anguish, all the ideals 
and reforms for which as a politician he had 
worked with such energy and enthusiasm be¬ 
gan to take on a very different aspect, lost in 
the gloom of a dark forbidding prospect, 
tainted with and steeped in blood. He looked 
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down at the muddy road as it slipped past him 
and he thought: 

“Yes. We do not understand them! We 
speak another language! . . . Retribution? . . . 
Yes. They will shed blood in streams and then 
turn retribution upon themselves, and suf-* 
fer again for that every punishment, every 
catastrophe, every disaster. . . . Savages? . . . 
Only savages! . . . And yet, perhaps-” 

All around, as far as the eye could see, 
stretched the fields, greenish, rusty-yellow, 
earthy-dark. The bleak horizon dissolved and 
melted into the grey boundless sky. Crows 
with shabby wings flew low across the road. 
A moist gusty wind began to stir. It was very 
cold. 

Dukhovetzsky raised the collar of his coat 
and jammed his hat down on his head. 


THE END 


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